Sexy shoes are hers no more
Once upon a time, long before Social Security and Medicare entered my life, I saw a pair of shoes that were so sexy and gorgeous that I, usually the most conservative of women, had to have them.
Once upon a time, long before Social Security and Medicare entered my life, I saw a pair of shoes that were so sexy and gorgeous that I, usually the most conservative of women, had to have them.
Slick, shiny, black patent leather, they had sky-high heels by my standards, open toes, a little ruffle of black lace, and a scattering of rhinestones near the toes.
Yes, ridiculously over the top. "Hideous!" proclaimed one imperious daughter. Her two sisters soon agreed.
But again, this was not a rational moment; it was seduction. These shoes were the kind that appear on paperback book covers in which you know for sure there will be lots of steamy sex.
At home, I placed them in the most prominent place on the shoe rack of our master bedroom closet. "What are these?" my husband asked when he first saw the shoes. And he had every reason to wonder.
Even back then, my wardrobe reflected my lifestyle. As a freelance writer, the high point of my day was waving to the mailman, or going off to interviews in simple pants and the kind of shoes my late mother would admiringly have called "practical."
On a big night out, it might be simple pumps or strappy sandals with a modest heel. Even though I'm undeniably short - 5-foot-2 on a good day - I never went for those towering heels that always hurt in an hour.
But I think that in every woman's life, there needs to be that feeling of breaking out, the same urge that once prompted me to buy a vest made of silver discs that I ultimately sold in a yard sale for three bucks.
Initially, the sexy shoes took me to very special places.
Opening night of the Philadelphia Orchestra.
An evening at the Plaza Hotel in New York City for a milestone anniversary dinner that cost more than the down payment on our first house, and where the waiter called us "sir" and "madame." (I admit to my everlasting shame that I dropped my napkin that night so that the waiter would lean down and see my va-va-voom shoes. Not bad for a long-married dame.)
There was the year I wore a cocktail dress and my fantasy shoes to a local Bar Association holiday dinner. Even though those were sedate affairs back then, I felt so glamorous - after I'd handed the kids over to a babysitter and stopped focusing on whether corn chips constituted a suitable vegetable for them.
I invariably limped home, paying for my reckless shoe abandon for days. But let me admit they did make me feel . . . well, a little wild - and like the me I wanted to know better.
The years slipped by, and still I kept them visible on prime real estate of my shoe rack. I guess I just needed to be reminded there was life in the old girl yet.
Then they literally gathered dust, and occasionally I would gently brush them off. But the shoes of my life had matured, just as surely as I had - many more clogs and sensible flats.
The black patents did get worn by our granddaughters when they played dress-up, hobbling around on visits to our house like miniature stunt walkers in a circus. It was adorable - and a little sad when it ended.
Recently, I was packing up a seasonal load for Goodwill. Into that huge bag went the clothes that will never fit again, the mistake "bargains."
And then I came to those shoes, the lace ruffles and rhinestones still intact.
I knew with certainty I would never wear them again. Not on feet that visited a podiatrist now for various ministrations. Not for a woman who walks ever-so-gingerly on uneven surfaces and stairs, after an experience with a badly sprained ankle.
No, those shoes would never dance at a gala, grace a special cocktail ensemble, or even be what my late Aunt Doris called "sitting shoes."
First I took a picture of them. Who knows why?
Then into the bag they went - a reminder of other times, other dreams.
And I'll admit I did feel a rush of regret that it has all slipped away while my back was turned. That age had brought both a semblance of prudence - and a large dose of regret.
I wonder what dreamer will pause when she sees those shoes, still in reasonably good condition on a rack at Goodwill - and buys herself another woman's fantasy.
I hope it serves her well.