Dangerous Shoes
Ever notice how your attitude can be transformed, not by what you wear - but by what you could wear? I learned this lesson through a friend who insisted on a night out, a winning ticket, and a shopping spree.
Heather and I work at each end of the San Francisco Bay Bridge. Our busy careers, mine as an art director and hers as a construction manager, make socializing a rare treat. Heather discovered a nearby location with that magic combination: food and convenience.
Not convenience food -- but the southern food of our childhood. We’re talking hush puppies, fried catfish, okra, collard greens and sweet potatoes. Our evening was rowdy with Cajun music, fried food, and girl talk. At midnight, I unexpectedly held the winning door prize ticket. When my waitress tried to con me out of it, I realized I must have something special. I did. A gift certificate to Stepping Out: the Urban Shoe Spa.
On our way out, the manager said ”You’re sure I can’t talk you out of that coupon?”
“Nope,” I replied, “I broke up with my boyfriend and I’ve just started dating again. Honey, I need these shoes.”
A male voice called out from behind us, “Sweetheart it is his loss.”
Heather and I blew kisses to my admirer and walked a few yards.
“Look Heather, here’s the store.”
We mashed our noses against the window, admired the display of outrageous shoes, and then promised not to let so much time pass before we played again.
Fast forward to a foggy Thursday a month later. Client changes had pounded my logo design into a mere shadow of its creative self. Even though I’d tried to salvage it with desperate pleas of “fresh” edgy” and “innovative”, nothing had worked. I needed a break. A trip to The Urban Shoe Spa with my coupon would be just the thing.
The shop sported raspberry walls, gold-encrusted mirrors, fresh flowers and cushy sofas. Mirrored shelves featured bags large enough to hold a weekend’s worth of clothes or a small child, and clutches so small a credit card and lipstick would crowd them.
Then there were the dangerous shoes.
There were skid across the floor, grab any surface, fall on your ass shoes; take tiny baby steps with arms poised for flight shoes; and I can’t stop wincing long enough to smile shoes. There were pumps and slingbacks, slides and stilettos. The displays held high heeled flip flops and shoes crafted from linen leather and lace, from wood and rhinestone and lame. I admired a cute little Carmen Miranda wedgie with ice-skate thin cork soles and toes frothed with cherries and grapes. And the colors: chartreuse, fuchsia, mauve, crimson, and of course basic sexy black.
I’d entered a world designed for fashionistas with fetishes.
I tried on everything I could crumple my toes into. For half an hour I pointed and murmured with all the crass charm of Scarlett O’Hara on that glorious honeymoon trip with Rhett when he bought her everything her heart desired.
With straps and heels piled up around me, I sat staring at my feet. On one was a black number -- which I could actually dance in -- with a frivolous heel and toes that could spear a fish. On the other was a scarlet stiletto sandal that made my calf look as if I actually went to the gym, but would limit walking to a one block radius.
Admiring my schizoid feet, I realized this was the footwear owned by a woman who draped elegantly over a barstool, ordered a dirty martini, then sipped it as she surveyed the room through half-closed eyes, slowly pulling olives off the toothpick with her teeth.
She was a woman who knew men named Felipe, Guillermo, Valentino, Malek, and Andre. Intimately. A femme fatale who ate decadent chocolate desserts without considering the calorie or carb count.
She drove small cars too fast while smoking dark foreign cigarettes or petit corona cigars. She ordered foie gras and champagne and called it dinner.
She had a French manicure—on her toes.
She’d maxed out numerous passports before they expired, could probably fly a plane and sail a boat. New York cabs squealed to a stop for her. She didn’t travel, she trekked. She’d ridden camels and elephants. She played tennis and polo, and was regularly invited to week-long house parties in places that started with “the”. The Hamptons, the Cotswolds, the Alps, the Riviera, the South of France.
She’d danced the salsa, the tango, and even the flamenco that summer in Seville.
She was more pufferfish sushi, than fried catfish.
She didn’t win door prizes; she donated them.
This woman was not me.
I bought the dangerous scarlet shoes.
My coupon barely paid the taxes, but I didn’t care. I was caught up in the moment, in the fantasy. After all, the style was fresh, edgy and innovative.
I left the Urban Shoe Spa and sauntered back toward the office. I knew this would be closest I’d come to a Carrie Bradshaw, Sex in the City, moment. I think the sun even glimmered through the fog for a brief second, highlighting my hair.
Stopping at the coffee shop on the corner, I bought a dark shot of espresso, not a frappacino. I placed the tiny cup on the bistro table beside the glamorous shopping bag with the subtle elegant logo, slid on my sunglasses, and viewed the street through half closed eyes, practicing.
That night I discovered I couldn’t make any of my comfortable, functional wardrobe go with the wicked witch toes. I gave up and padded off barefoot to make a grilled cheese sandwich and call Heather to tell her about my frivolous frolics with footwear.
But I know, at the top of my closet in a sleek gray box, shoehorns in place, those shoes and the dangerous adventures they represent await me.
Because, you see, sometimes the journey is not about how far you walk, but how good you look getting there. When that moment arrives for me, I’ll have the perfect shoes to wear.