Valet Shoes are not to be confused with Ballet Shoes.

Let me explain.

My husband, Barry, hates to have our cars valet parked. This has nothing to do with him being cheap. He’s not. It’s all about him having things in his car that he doesn’t want touched, looked at, moved or lost. (He often brings paperwork home and it sometimes doesn’t manage to get into our home.) And he especially doesn’t like it when the car is moved to some mysterious location, a window is mistakenly left open and the key is left in the ignition.

It’s just a thing with him that I have learned to live with and love him anyway.

Except when I am wearing Valet Shoes. Then Barry knows better. Valet Shoes are anything pointed. 3-inch or higher spikes. Satin in the rain. Open backed mules or sling-backs. Anything beginning with the word Minolo. And any combination of the above.

Last night, though, I let down my guard. We had decided to head to the harbor near our home, to a nice little restaurant with outdoor harborside dining. It was a beautiful night and summer was truly in the air. There is also a tavern-style bar there, and we figured we could head inside when it got too cold and watch the Red Sox/Yankees game at the bar.

Good plan.

Now, keep in mind that I can run to this restaurant in about 5 minutes. I do it nearly every day. I lace up my running shoes and head right by that restaurant on my run. But last night, I put on a nice pair of jeans and sweater… and a pair of pointed toe 3-inch open-back mules. I love these shoes. I have had them for years, and they still look brand new because I don’t wear them that often. I can’t. Cuz they hurt after awhile.

As we drove down the hill to this dinner destination, Barry remembered that the valet services start around this time of year. He said to me, “My car is loaded with stuff. I’m going to park on the street and we’ll walk a couple of blocks.”

“Uh-uh,” I said, and pointed to my feet. “Valet Shoes.”

“It’s about the same distance if we valet or walk,” Barry said convincingly.

My better judgment screamed “No,” but I succumbed.

We walked. We sat outdoors. We ate. We talked. When it got chilly and dark, we moved inside. We watched the game. I stood for a good deal of time. We saw some people we know. I stood some more. We had a wonderful time. My feet didn’t.

As I walked out the side door exit of the bar, I looked up the street to where our car was parked. It was a dot in the distance. I squinted and looked again. Sure enough, our car was a million miles away… at least in terms of shoes.

Barry was gracious and gentlemanly and said he would go get the car. I stood on the street corner, leaning on a lamp post. Like a woman of the night.

What seemed like hours later, Barry picked me up and I kicked off my Valet Shoes in the car. I did mention that several women hopped into valet parked cars a few feet from the door as I had waited for him…

His response. “Why do you wear shoes that hurt?”

Ah… men.