You can control the outfit. You cannot control the shoe. In my 20s, I remember forgoing meals for shoes I had decided I needed. One pair in particular was a half-size too narrow. I knew this. My feet knew this. I bought them anyway, on the theory that fashion required minor sacrifice. It did not.
I wore them for two years, the way you keep dating someone who is technically wrong for you. This is, I’ve come to think, most women’s relationship to shoes: loving the idea of them and negotiating with the reality. You can look completely put together. The perfect coat, the perfect trousers, not a hair out of place. And then you look down.