When you’re 22 and spending as little time as possible on the (parents’) homefront, it’s common that Mom and Dad ask if you are planning on moving out. It is not, however, that they ask each other to move out. Divorce is one of those words that we tend to associate with adolescence like Phys-Ed, homeroom and doobie (as in “Hey Chris, pass the doobie”) and is as out of place in your twenties as braces in the boardroom. When the kids finally clear out of the rec room, Mom may realize that she no longer has anything in common with Dad except the marriage itself; Dad may finally be able to admit that Mom’s nagging and controlling tendencies trump the occasional Saturday night romp. And the kids? They’re torn between movie nights with Mom or sharing a pint with Dad when all they want is to do both, with both. Chances are, so does one of the adults.

With grand life changes, something’s got to give. You can own the most gorgeous vintage Ferragamo flats, but if your foot grows, the shoes are useless. They sit in your closet, impressing visitors, as you refuse to believe something so ornate and treasured could cease to fit, even when you know all they amount to now is clutter, an obstacle between your foot and a delicious pair of Balmain studded platforms. It’s illogical, yes, like keeping on a tight stiletto because it stings less than your wound hitting fresh air. If there is something more crushing than outgrowing Ferragamo, it’s seeing it about town on your petite-footed friend or on a stouter consignee who drags the soles through mug, rendering it nearly unrecognizable. Perhaps it’s for the best; no one likes to see a loved one move on.

Mom and Dad may be more like Ferragamo than you could have ever known. Once the ill-fitted soles are slipped off, their distorted shape becomes apparent, along with the irritated toes that are finally allowed to breathe. From souls to soles, I was never Ferragamo with its traditions, sturdiness and cushioned insteps. Come see me in 20 years; if I own a mini-van, you can ride shotgun. Until then, give me glamour, intensity and overt sex appeal: My heart belongs to Gucci. And you know what they say about a girl’s first love…