I’m not one to toot my own horn, but c’mon–you have to admit I’m fabulous, right? I mean, you’d be crazy not to. I’m all the rage this season, why with the chunky platform wedge and the peep-toe and the fancy ankle strap. I’m no wallflower, I tell you whut!
I knew I wasn’t going to last too long on the shelf, it was just a manner of who–and when. It felt good to be tried on a couple of times, and I was getting to the point when I really thought that platinum blonde was going to buy me for sure, but she left empty handed–a fussy shopper that one was. All of a sudden, however, I felt myself up in the air again, examined by two squinty eyes behind thick-rimmed glasses. A mousy librarian type with limp tresses and a long plaid skirt (the horror!) was probing me. Girl, puh-leaze! You are definitely not my type. And I can guarantee you, I’m not your type, either.
I tried to do my best impression of pfffft! in the universal language of shoes (screeching and being a little petulant once she put me on–you know, rubbing her heel out of spite a little, getting as tight as possible across the vamp, all the tricks in the book–but girlfriends, she wouldn’t have it. In that hesitant manner of hers she whispered to the salesgirl, who looked as surprised as I was, ‘I’ll take them,’ and before I could protest, I was wrapped, boxed, and swung in a paper bag all the way home to the librarian’s closet.
I lived there inside my box wrapped in tissue paper for what felt like an eternity. I was beginning to fear I had been kidnapped by one of those weird types that hoards innocent shoes in her closet and never lets them see the light of day, save for the occasional full moon night when she takes them out and engages in some bizarre rituals in the middle of the room, involving usually hair clippings, old photographs, and copious amounts of scotch. The horror stories you hear in a shoe factory, makes one’s toes curl! I was beginning to despair that I was going to suffer the same undignified faith, without knowing the joys of going out, when suddenly one day I felt commotion. Something was happening! Somebody was taking the lid off! The light was blinding!
All I could do was repeat ‘Sweet Saint Crispin, I don’t want to die unworn!’ over and over to my quivering ankle strap, ready to snap with a mix of excitement and anxiety. I was finally out of the wrapping, and found myself held gently by the hands of my owner. Or at least I guessed it was my owner, for she looked nothing like the mousy weakling that had bought me what seemed like eons before. Her hair was cascading in resplendent curls over her shapely bare shoulders, her eyes were suddenly bright and beautiful now that they were free of the thick-rimmed glasses, and her skin was flawless. I could also glimpse what seemed to be perfectly toned calves stemming out of a knee-length gauzy white dress, coquettishly tied with a bright red scarf.
”Here you are, lovelies,” she whispered. ”It’s been a while, I know, but now it’s time for you to shine.”
And so began a remarkable night, the night I knew I was destined for. The whole thing was a whirlwind, so I’ll just try to remember the memorable moments. A pair of fetching boxy men’s oxfords came tantalizingly close. ”Amanda?” I heard their owner say. ”Is that really you? Wow. You look…different. I mean, amazing!” ”You betcha, baby,” I said to myself, flirting openly with his shoes. Then all of a sudden a pair of yellow pumps joined them (they clashed together, blech) and a strident voice took the black oxfords away from me…though they left hesitantly, it’s like they wanted to tell me something. The night was a parade of limos, cocktails, dizzyingly high bar stools, shiny dance floors on which I swirled with unusual grace and precision, and a steady parade of men’s loafers and sneakers trying to flirt with me–none quite as attractive, unfortunately, as that initial pair of oxfords.
Towards the end of the night, however, they came back. I was half-expecting the yellow pumps to return, but they never did. Instead, the black oxfords stayed around. We flirted, we touched, we danced, and ended up spending all night on the floor next to each other, free of our owners. It was all I expected, and more.
The next day I was lovingly put back in the closet by a still gleaming Amanda. It was ok, for I knew those black oxfords were going to stick around and I was going to see them quite often. The only problem was that the closet was sparsely populated with a wretched stock of librarian shoes, the sight of which almost made me jump out of my sole. However, I was confident that situation was not going to last. And indeed, she gathered those sorry, tired, dusty brown lot, and muttered, ”Time for new shoes.”
Well, I’ll dance to that!
The Vince Camuto Manta 1 platforms are $145 at Shoes.com.
This column pays homage to the fabulous and inimitable Erin and her Secret Lives of Dresses series at her fabulous blog A Dress a Day. Just so you know.
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