I once worked with a woman who had a great sense of style. Every morning she’d arrive dressed as though she were ready for the runway.

She looked so put together, complete. She was a devout follower of a fashion designer who was known for a signature look of shoes. I didn’t realize it at the time, but my co-worker’s shoes would serve as a lesson in the seductive power of envy.

A few years later while shopping at an out-of-town mall, I walked into the designer’s store. From the glitzy art deco décor to the techno-beat background music, it was bathed in chic. And money.

Even the air smelled expensive courtesy of the designer’s pricey perfume. As I turned around to leave, a sales clerk placed a flute of champagne in my hand. Not wanting to be rude, I accepted her bubbly gesture and plopped down in the dove feather-stuffed sofa. Well, I can’t verify if the couch was comprised of dove feathers, but after a heady scent of expensive fragrance and two flutes of champagne, I was convinced it should be.

The sales clerk brought me gold-trimmed boxes of the new seasonal debut of shoes.

“They’re the epitome of class and comfort!” she exclaimed while slipping the metallic shoe on my foot.

Soon I walked out with a bow-tied paper bag of high-priced class and comfort. My head started to throb, a pain only matched by a pulsating ache from my feet. Suddenly, the decision to wear my new shoes out of the store seemed like a bad idea. By the time I got to the food court, only one thought consumed me — Must. Remove. The. Pain.

I tried wearing the shoes a few more times, thinking I needed to break them in; this is what expensive leather must be like, rigid and hard like cardboard before forming around my foot like a soft blanket. The blisters on my feet dismissed such a foolish thought. By then, it was too late to return the shoes.

Last week, I spotted them in my closet as I was getting ready for a party. They sit bright and shiny on the shelf, nary a scratch on the designer’s brass initials at the tip of the toe. I tried to give them to my college-aged daughter, but they didn’t fit. She tried to give them to some of her friends, but no takers. Apparently, my must-have fashion item wasn’t anymore.
What remains most surprising about this impetuous purchase is that I spent it on shoes. Fashion is not my thing. As I write this column, I am wearing a pair of jeans that I’ve owned for more than a decade and a gray T-shirt even longer. Heidi Klum I am not.

I’ve come to realize the shoes really weren’t about the shoes even though I plunked down some serious change thinking they were. What I most envied about my stylish co-worker was her confidence. She exuded panache and carried herself accordingly beyond what she wore. She was decisive on work issues and bold in her suggestions to our team without being uppity. As a chronic second-guesser, I admire those who possess a natural self-assuredness.

Perception can be a delicate combo of how we see ourselves in both the plus and minus categories. Even though I’m old enough to know better, I still fall prey to following false cues in an attempt to build a strong and healthy sense of self. But I’m also old enough to self-correct before going down a wrong path by being someone I’m not. Still, I stumble on occasion, quite literally, like with my pair of overpriced, ill-fitting shoes.

So the designer footwear stays put on my closet shelves. I rather like that I can see them every morning, reminding me that class and comfort is truly an inside job.