Shoe Shopping

Oh Hello Darling! Where have you been all my life? In all your exquisite luminescent pink? Your delicate curving arch, like a quivering rainbow of invitations…

I wasn’t looking for you, oh no. I was looking for a gorgeous storm-proof boot that could withstand slush, and not the pretty pink slush that pours out of a silver lever. I mean the dreadful gray slush that appears after the gentle hush of falling snow has covered the city like a warm blanket of sparkling crystals. 

I was looking for shoes that could splash through puddles… or champagne, depending on the occasion, but then there you were, a whisper of a pink feather sticking out of a sea of beige shoe boxes. A bounce and wave, beckoning me, summoning me, and oh how I came. I lifted you out of the box and a choir started to sing in my head, oh the adventures we could have together. 

No gray slush for you and I, pink-feathered-shoe, oh no.

You and I are meant to tango, a smoky cafe in Buenos Aires where I sit in a thigh-slit dress as someone in a fedora who smells like warm nutmeg, cloves, juniper, and a dangerous dash of honeysuckle, taps me on the shoulder and I turn, leap onto him like a wild panther, and we proceed to entangle our limbs, sweep and swagger about the dance floor with a stunning braggadocio. Or perhaps we are meant to waltz on a cloud, gliding up and down while we pretend life is a sumptuous dream of violet, vetiver, and vanilla where our beloveds never leave…. 

And with you, pink shoes, this dream could be.

You could lift me out of the slush, the slush that is full of sighs and heartache, the kind that leaves an icy trail of longing with a dangerous dash of piercing loss.

You aren’t meant for slush, oh no, you are the picture of elegance, meant to recline, roll around my sheets without ever touching the floor at all, what I call “reclining shoes.” I lift one foot to the sky and yes, my feet look like candy—delectable.

And oh, okay, if the world insists on a bit of reality, it’s true, my half-century old hips may not allow me to actually wear you in a smoky cafe in Buenos Aires, but whether I actually wear you or not is not the consideration. You are coming home with me. You deserve a soft landing, a pink marabou powder puff to frame your exquisiteness, and whether we actually tango or not, every time I look at you in my closet, I see potential, I see beauty, I see a long feathered robe in an old hollywood dressing room with witty banter and long cigarette holders, a beloved beauty that will never fade. I see a swilling martini and a “life is a banquet darling, and most poor suckers are starving” attitude. 

And yes, okay, there will be gray slush days where I will have to don my old pair of red rainboots while I pretend the slush is bright pink and smells like orange blossoms and powdery mimosas, but I will be dreaming of you, my soft pink feathered fantasy…. always of you.