When I was little (and, admittedly, even today), I always looked forward to New Shoe Day!, a day so great, it must be capitalized and end with an exclamation point, even in the middle of a sentence. Picking out just the right shoe; the feel of the Brannock device against your sock-clad foot (yes, that metal thing they use to measure your shoe size does have a name); the agony of those rare times when they didn't have the right size; the ecstasy as you wore your spankin' new shoes out of the store, old ones already forgotten in the box under your mom's arm. There was nothing in the world like New Shoe Day!

One night recently, as I sat motionless and glassy-eyed on my couch, I came across one of the older episodes of Friends. It was the one where Ross was trying to decide which girl would be better suited for him: his current girlfriend, Julie, or his dream woman, Rachel. So he made a list of what was wrong with each woman in an effort to help him choose. Long story short, he picked Rachel, she found the list, read it, got mad at what he thought was wrong with her, hijinks ensued, roll credits. As I watched this episode for what seemed like the ten gazillionth time, it dawned on me that I, too, was approaching a crisis not unlike that of my television friend Ross.