During my recent trip to Las Vegas, we took a window shopping stroll through the Wynn, where my in-laws were staying. I was calm, cool, and collected until I saw this, and stopped dead in my flat, equestrian-chic boots:

Spellbound, I dropped Paul’s hand, and floated toward the open doors of this store, my eyes and mouth wide open. I may have stopped breathing.

“It’s, it’s…” I silently opened and closed my jaw, willing the words to form in my throat and come out. They didn’t. I lovingly fingered the stately black plaque on the wall, and peered around the corner.

The salesman looked at me, and smiled. I tripped into the store, breathless, and out came each and every word I had been trying to produce for the last minute. All at once:

“Ohmygosh! It’s—you’re—they’re! Manolo Blahniks! They’re so beaaauuuutifuuuul! Look! Oh, feathers! Ohmygosh ohmygosh ohmygosh! Could I, um, take a picture? Please!”

Too amused by my reverence to be concerned about the accompanying threat of hyperventilation, he kindly let me snap away to my heart’s content.

I was particularly fixated on these feathered beauties:

As I lingered over them lovingly, cooing, my brother-in-law Justin strolled in.

“Justin!” I gasped. “Look!”

Justin is an acclaimed jewelry designer in New York, and isn’t quite as bowled over by encounters of the exquisitely feathered kind as I am—such things are de rigueur in his beautifully decorated world, but he’s sweet enough to humor me.

“Wouldn’t they tickle your toes?” he asked.

I turned to face him.

“Honey—I haven’t felt my toes in years.”

I spent last week/end in Las Vegas, celebrating my in-laws’ 35th wedding anniversary. We had a lovely time, adored our hotels (reviews and photos coming, soon) and even managed to catch a show: Cirque du Soleil’s Le Reve, which was phenomenal. My MIL and I sat next to each other so we could have someone to squeal to, but were both so breathtaken, I could only blindly bat her arm a few times, eyes jumping around the stage. I may have managed a squeak or two, but really can’t be sure. I also may have bruised her with those aimless hand swats, but am double crossing my fingers that this isn’t the case—I have beyond lucked out in the in-law department.

Since it was fabulous Las Vegas and all, we gussied ourselves up, and I debuted my new vintage (oxymoron, I know) dangly costume diamond earrings. I matched them with a blue dress from F21—you’d never guess—and perfect red pumps from Miss Sixty. The perfection of my shoe selection became even more apparent during the show; there is a magical number during which a dozen water acrobats perform a peppy dance number fully submerged, save for their red heels flashing in the air.

My shoes have been dying to do the same ever since, and although I fear they’ll never reach such heights of stardom and glamour, the least I can do is post a photo of them. The images are a bit blurry, I realize, but a promise is a promise.