Good Buy

Is it OK to feel happy about a going-out-of-business sale?

I've never cared much for shoes. I typically own a few of them, all black, all simple.

Carrie Bradshaw would be appalled. So why I jumped at the chance to go to a going-out-of-business sale at a local shoe store still escapes me. New shoes were certainly not on my mind when I woke up that morning just in time to schlep my two toddlers to the local Boys & Girls club for some gym time. Nope. My boring black boots, the ones I'd been wearing for about 15 years, would do just fine.

Then, however, I met the woman with the funky clogs. Her shoes were not what brought us together but rather our children, who both wanted the same fire truck at the same time. After helping them reach a compromise, the woman started talking shoes.

"Aren't they great?" she said, wiggling each foot. "I just bought them at that little shoe store in Arlington Center. She's having a fantastic going-out-of-business sale, and even though I shouldn't be spending any money right now, I just had to have them."

And for some reason, even though I knew I shouldn't be spending any money right now either, I just had to have some, too. Maybe it was because in better economic times, I could never afford the shoes in this adorable shop just around the corner from my house. Once or twice I had stopped in, perused the prices, and made a quick exit. Now, however, it might be possible to actually own a pair. So I thought "Why not just take a peek," which turned into a purchase and a whole shoe-load of guilt.

A few days before, a colleague had told me about her daughter, who had gone to bid on a foreclosed home, only to discover it belonged to someone she knew. "That's horrible," I said. "Did she bid?"

Turned out she did, but only to make sure that she, and not some stranger, owned the house, so she could then sell it back to her friend. What a happy ending, I thought, which then made me think about all the not-so-happy endings, all the humiliated parents and the displaced children who suffer when a home is lost. I concluded that I could never buy a foreclosed home. Not that I'm judging anyone who does, but, for me, buying one would feel like benefiting from someone else's train wreck.

Which was the same way I now viewed my shoe purchase. I had met the owner of the store that day, a kind woman who paid attention not just to me, but also to my children. Now I couldn't help but associate my new shoes with that woman's face and with the demise of her livelihood. At first I tried not to let it get to me, but then every going-out-of-business sale sign I saw -- and there have been lots of them lately -- kept stirring up that same confusing mix of "what's in it for me" excitement and "what about all those poor people losing their jobs" despair.

And despair was winning. I couldn't even look at my new shoes, much less put them on.

When I expressed my feelings to my husband, he was astounded.

"You actually helped that woman," he said. "You're helping her pay off debt."

"But the shoes were already discounted $138," I said. "And I haggled for another $10 off! Then, and here's the worst part, I e-mailed a bunch of women in town so they could go loot her store, too."

"You're being ridiculous."

Still, even with his reassurance, I couldn't shake my guilt.

In the end, not knowing what else to do, I decided to write the woman a thank you note. It took me a few times to get it right ("Thank you for going out of business" was definitely off message). The final version read:

I wanted to thank you for bringing such a lovely little store to our town and wish you the best of luck.

It's funny, but gratitude can be liberating. I slipped on my new boots, looked in the mirror, and thought: Girl, you look good.

No doubt Carrie would be proud. I'd like to think the store owner would be, too.

Amy Yelin is a freelance writer, communications professional, and mother of two living in Arlington. Send comments to magazine@globe.com.