As I walked to the office today wearing my black EG Malverns for the first time, I was first able to admit to myself that I love black shoes. It's true. I think they're wonderful. There it is; I'm a dirty, rotten two-timer. Though my brown shoes get more wear and more compliments, my black shoes work as hard without demanding as much attention or special care in polishing. If my brown shoes are the stunning beauty who dances topless on the tables, my black shoes are the wallflower whose striking beauty goes unnoticed because she does not proclaim it. I can outdress others without attracting their attention or eliciting their resentment. My black shoes whisper to business associates about how I am sober, hard-working and competent, whereas my brown shoes hint at my inner drunken philanderer. My black shoes are always appropriate, and I am never troubled by the nagging anxiety that some tiresome trad will dress me down for being out after 6:00 wearing brown in town (but let him just try when I do!). In short, they are the sartorial embodiment of the admonishment that appearances are deceiving. I savor the irony. There, my sordid secret is out. I need no longer hide my forbidden love. I need no longer hang my head in shame for cherishing a special appreciation of black shoes.