For the Love of a Perfect Shoe
The shoes, when lying on a carpet, looked like they should have an empty martini glass and a black lace bra lying next to them… real heart breaking, damage doing leather accouterments reserved for a Catholic girl who took all those many years of guilt producing catechism and slipped it into a pair of shoes that could be worn with a strut. God, I loved those shoes. They were practically a religious experience. They gave me moxie on first dates, second dates, and “I might let you come home with me” dates. They were familiar with dancing at the Roxy till closing time, and Donte’s–a little jazz club in the valley where I once watched Gabor Szabo fall off of the stage on a particularly wild night. They had wobbled me home from dinners at the Ivy and nightcaps at the Hotel Bel-air. They glided across carpeted rooms in a way that turned heads. In short, those shoes were the world’s biggest confidence booster.
For a year I wore them with just about everything. My closest was not of the Imelda Marcus variety, but rather the single working girl variety. Among practical work clothes, I owned one classic black dress and one pair of fabulous shoes. Whenever I put those shoes on, I felt like a million bucks, and even as the heels wore away and the pointy toes became wrinkled, the counter slightly scuffed, my love was faithful. Putting them into the plastic bag that went to the Goodwill was a sad, and grieving day.
I cannot wear high heels anymore. I am at the sensible flats age of life, and I refuse to torture my feet , hips or low back the way that I used to regardless of how gorgeous the shoe is. Still, as a bonafied elder, the advice that I have for young women is this: a little torture may be worth the price. Always have a perfect pair of black, sexy shoes in your closet that lets you strut your stuff and know that you are “all that!” You’re only young once.
Thanks to a Daily WordPress Prompt from the friends at WordPress!
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