Great myths have involved quests for coveted objects: buried treasure, magical talismans, symbols of power. Men(usually) battle monsters and make daring escapes during their journeys, sometimes losing their lives, other times returning home empty-handed, and occasionally emerging triumphant(though one has to wonder if Jason wished he had left his spoils hanging on a tree, given his tragic life post-adventure.)

For a few years now, I have been searching for my own fantastical prize, always edging in close to my quarry, before I step back in fear or resignation. I click “checkout,” fill in my billing address, but have never completed my credit card information, as the sea of practicality draws me away from this fleeting moment of madness. I have almost bought a pair of black Manolo Blahnik pumps.

Manolo Blahnik. Visions of Carrie Bradshaw should dance in your head on pointy toes. Before SATC, these shoes were probably best known to NYC fashionistas but once cable television’s most celebrated women’s comedy premiered, any shoe-loving gal from Hayward to Harvard could utter that name in awe. During one of my twentysomething jaunts to the Big Apple, I made a pilgrimage in the rain to the store, where I paused before my dream shoes for two brief seconds.

Two seconds. That’s how close I’ve been to finally giving in. It’s different now. I have a beloved seven-month old daughter. A fixer-upper that still needs some fixing up. A car note.

But damn, if those shoes don’t shimmer.