A week before, I had moved to Hollywood from freezing Michigan. The bikini-clad shoppers and Elvis impersonators on Hollywood Boulevard were a welcome sight at the end of my three-day drive south. I moved into an apartment three blocks from the Kodak Theater on Hollywood Boulevard and I was chomping at the bit to get out and explore this fascinating place.First I’d need the right shoes. All the shoes I’d owned in Michigan were black, leather, and snow proof. I knew exactly what I wanted: A moderate heel, just enough that I could wear them with jeans and look sexy but nothing that I couldn’t outrun street thugs in. Nothing black, more of a nude color to accommodate the beach feel of L.A. No ankle straps to call attention to my cankles, no pointy toes to further elongate my size 10 feet, and no big price to call my husband’s attention to our bank account. So I set out for the Hollywood and Highland mall.

And there they were. After over an hour of searching the shoe racks of the boutiques at this world-famous mall I found them. Five minutes later I was walking home with the shoes dangling in a bag from my arm. I felt an incredible lightness. These were the shoes that would mark my entrance into Southern California society. When I wore these shoes, nobody would peg me as a Michigan transplant. If I was really confident, they may even mistake me for a movie star… oh, the possibilities of these shoes!

The lightness I was feeling was unmistakable. Suddenly my stomach sank-the lightness was most noticeable in my back pocket-where my wallet should be.

Everything was in there. My social security card, my credit cards, and most importantly, my Subway Sandwich club card with an impressive accumulation of stickers. I closed my eyes and promised God that if he could help me find my wallet I would show a token of my thanks and faith. I would make the ultimate sacrifice if only He would lead me to my wallet.

I would return the shoes.

I dashed back to the mall, eyes to the heavens, begging God to work with me. Back at the boutique, my wallet was waiting for me safe and sound at the register. All my cash, cards and coupons were intact.

Then I looked down at the plastic bag on my arm. I hesitated, knowing the cashier wouldn’t know I was a big, fat, welcher if I just turned and went home. I’d made a promise, but it did seem a little silly. These really were fantastic shoes and they weren’t that expensive. Did God really still want them? I don’t think He even wears my size…

After some brief, yet excruciating soul-searching, I laid the bag on the counter and whispered to the cashier to take them back. I had made a promise, rash and illogical though it may have been: I’d promised God pumps in exchange for my wallet and so pumps He got.

It was with mixed feelings of devotion and despair that I walked home in my brown leather snowshoes that sunny California day.

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Sarah Flake is the author of a humor blog at hollywoodflakes.org that has approximately 10,000 readers a month