last week kyle, kari, phillip and i were headed to turner field to watch the braves take on the mets in game one of the series.  i had been up at work in norcross that day, and what i had hoped would be a quick commute to downtown atlanta turned into a journey i’d rather not have taken.

after sitting in rainy atlanta traffic for an hour, i got to the lindbergh marta station just in time to board the red line.  i seated myself down and let phillip know i was on the train and headed their way.  he and kari were already there, so my anxiety was rising.  i just wanted to be there, too!  it had been a long short week with the labor day holiday, which meant a relaxing night at the ballpark was going to be just the ticket, that is if i were going to make it.

the train made good time, and soon we were at the west end station.  i yielded my umbrella to the slanting sheets of rain, growing more uncertain with each step how much cover it was actually providing.  i wasn’t too concerned, though, because like the good planner that i am, i had a change of casual clothes in my lulu lemon bag.  there’s no way i was going to sit through three hours of baseball in my fitted capris.  plus, i needed something with a bit more space for all the food and drinks!

i finally was under the roof of the station when i saw a police officer who was hollering above the pounding rain, “the station is flooded downstairs!  you’ll have to go down and around.”  excuse me, what?  flooded?  like many of the other passengers nearby, i didn’t take those words as music to my ears.  i didn’t know how else i could leave, so i wobbled down the stairs and found myself staring at almost two inches of standing water below me.  i kid you not, there was no other way to get out, so i uselessly tiptoed through the muck and funk of the west end marta station to “drier” land.  i’m sure i couldn’t hide the disgust on my face as i finally set my umbrella down.  the water reeked of twenty porta potties that had all been drained right into the station, and i was sure i’d caught some kind of disease during my trek.  even worse, i had to use my braves t-shirt to dry my waterlogged feet.  so much for changing at the game…

but the smell and wet feet weren’t the worst of these things.  the worst of these things was a crime against fashion, an insult to beautiful shoes everywhere:  my beloved tory burch peep toe wedges were completely ruined.  i’d worn them hard over the years, and i knew it wouldn’t be long before they were done, but thanks to west end, the process was lovingly expedited.  the stains are irreversible, and the disgusting stank i knew would linger on probably forever.

when we got home after the game that night, i put the shoes down on my living room floor and, to be honest, had a little moment.  these wedges went with everything.  jeans, pants, skirts, dresses.  you name it, odds were i could wear these shoes with it.  it’s been just barely a week, and i’m still mourning the loss as i sit here and write about it.  the up side to this tragedy?  next spring i’ll be treating myself to a nice new pair, and i promise you i won’t let the west end funk get its gross paws all over them.