I’m waging a war against my shoes right now and I am losing big time.

A few weeks ago, I convinced myself that I needed new footwear to wear to work – as the leather of my old sandals was vomit stained and so dry and warn in parts it looked like that dry skin you usually shave off your heels.

Being the kind of person I am, I don’t work in a mega fancy workplace that requires stiff blazers or corporate wedges. But I can’t help but feel my four-year-old sandals that smell like the feet of a thousand professional runners are a little too casual for smart casual.

And when you team that with my signature “corporate comfort” look – which consists of sensible skirts purchased from op shops paired with basic t-shirts – it doesn’t scream professional. My other classic looks in my repotriore include Corooate Bogan, Stained But Chic and All For Under Seventeen Dollars. So I bought these new shoes thinking I would at least nod towards a reasonable dress standard. 

The woman in the shop insisted I buy the snug-fit flats, as apparently they stretch. This confused me as the guy at my local Akubra outlet told me that leather shrinks (which is why your hat should only be out in the sun if it’s on your head – I’m suddenly very devoted to good hatcare). And even though I’ve got two degrees and two Hungry Jacks Employee of the Month certificates under my belt, I didn’t question her. 

I don’t know what it is about the retail environment that turns generally smart, capable people into obedient schoolgirls, but every time I’m in a shop that doesn’t sell thongs I find the authority of a salesgirl to be all powerful.

I was sceptical, but then this girl insisted. She had experience in shoes and probably knew better. Even though she had not only never walked a mile in my shoes, but she had no idea how soft and sensitive the skin on my ankles is.

So instead of telling the girl “what do you know?” I complied, and even bought some leather water-proofer just to seal the deal.

Big mistake, huge.

Because now it looks like my ankles are peeling away like the outer skin of an onion. It took me less than the time it takes to walk to the train station to develop a blister on each foot with enough liquid filling them to sustain Bear Grylls for seven days in the desert. 

And I still had a whole day ahead of me. I wasn’t even at work yet.

Throughout the day I tried walking on my shows with the backs pressed down under my heel. This helped with the pain, but made me look like even more of a twat than usual.

On the walk home, it was raining. But my feet felt like someone had attacked them with a potato peeler, so I had to take off those torture slippers. I was walking as if I was a wounded solider at the end of a war movie – you know the walks where they’re limping but they’ve done The Thing to achieve The Victory and it’s all meaningful and in slow motion? It was like that, except I had won nothing and I was hobbling to a foot soak instead of a loving and unfairly hot wife, desperate to know if her hero husband was still alive and fuckable.

So I took my shoes off and walked home in the rain. To anyone else, it looked like I was one of those free sprits who appreciates life for all the tiny moments of monumental joy and beauty it contains. Maybe it looked like I had just quit my high-flying corporate job or finally asked for a divorce. Maybe I looked finally free from the weights of life that were dragging me down.

But no, I was just a fool who can’t stand up for herself in a shoe store.

The next day I got a cold and had to wear several bandaids. My feet hurt so much I couldn’t jog for a week. So I was sloppy, sick and sore all because I trusted the advice of a shoe girl.

Today I wore them again and went through seven band aids. 

I’m determined to break these shoes in. But I have to wonder if I am not the one being broken in the process.