Bless Shoe

When I was growing up, I didn't have brand name stuff. I didn't wear Jordache or Z Cavaricci. I didn't have Nike or Adidas. I didn't display Tiffany or Rolex. And, honestly, I didn't much care. Sure, there were times when it seemed everyone else had the "in" item and I was wearing the Wal-Mart brand and I let it get to me. But I had fun creating outfits that mirrored the designer fashions. I learned to enjoy a good bargain, and enjoy wearing clothes that fit me rather than fit the style. I started to realize what a waste most of those brand-name splurges turn out to be.

But, if you know anything about me, you know that I am rife with contradictions. The very essence of who I am contains so many juxtapositions that getting to know me might leave you cross-eyed. How, you ask? Well, I am a girl who loves to cook a great meal and decorate a home and be all buttoned up a la Martha Stewart, but not-so-secretly enjoys playing the part of the porn star. I'm a girl who would give her right arm for a garage with a workbench where I could build things and have tons of tools, but also believes wholeheartedly in the power of a perfectly shaped eyebrow. And, despite the fact that my favorite part of catching a fish is gutting and cleaning it... and despite my meager upbringings and opinions on the wastefulness of luxury... I. Adore. Fashion.

Did you know that I bought bridal magazines with my allowance when I was in the THIRD grade? I would sit and sketch gowns and party dresses for hours and hours. There's hardly a designer I haven't heard of or couldn't describe their fall line. I would never spend thousands of dollars on an article of clothing or an accessory... but that doesn't mean I can't love them. I remember once when a friend, whom I had repeatedly chided for her lavish spending, divulged that she had blown her whole paycheck on a handbag. Shocked, dismayed... disgusted... I asked to see the damned thing. And before it was even fully revealed, I gasped and sighed, "ohhh Ferragamo...". She was stunned that I knew the designer just by looking at it. How could that be when I had berated her ad nauseum for her frivolity? Well, loving something.... and loving something are two different things. Once, I stood on a freezing New York City street in the heart of Little Italy with a friend who was offered a coat by one of our dinner guests. She declined the offer, but the man insisted and so she took it and held it over her arm. I looked at her with sheer horror, the began to absently stroke the deliciously constructed bolt of fabric that hung, lifeless, over her shivering arm... and I leaned in and growled out a whisper: "For God's sake... it's a DOLCE coat. Put. on. the damned coat!"

Tonight I was watching a tv makeover show where they took a woman to InStyle magazine to help her find inspiration for her shopping trip. And then they took her to meet a famous designer. And to whom did they take this poor fashion-challenged woman? J Mendel. J-freaking-Mendel. And there he is, Gilles Mendel... in the flesh... showing his designs to a woman who, only one day earlier, was wearing a saggy pinstriped blazer over a thick cable-knit sweater and poplin shirt combo. He was describing the intricate handworking on a couture gown... to a woman wearing scuffed brown clogs. You can imagine how my stomach turned. Then, as if that wasn't enough... he offered to let her try on some of his designs. Yeah, go try them on, frumpgirl. I'll just sit here trying not to throw the remote at the TV. Oh, but it gets better: "I would be honored to offer you one of the gowns." ...to which she doesn't even graze the surface of being appropriately thankful for. Ack! And... in the most devastating television moment I have witnessed since Denny got killed off of Grey's... Gilles Mendel gives this young woman a pair of (composing myself) Louboutins. One of the most beautiful pairs of red-soled heaven I have ever seen. And... I know I should be happy for her. I should rejoice that she was given such an incredible gift! But all I can seem to do is wonder how the shoes are now. Are they tossed into the bottom of her closet under those scuffed brown clogs? Does she wear them with cable knit? Does she have the good sense to wear them to bed with her man... with nothing else on? Is their beauty and power being wasted? I wish I knew. I wish I could send them a little message out into the cosmos and tell them that if they were mine I'd either never take them off for loving them so much... or I'd never put them on for fear of hurting them. I'd love every inch of that stiletto heel. And tonight, I'm going to pretend that seven-hundred-dollars for a pair of shoes makes total sense... and that just around the corner, in my closet, inside a fire-proof safe, inside a panic room, waits my very own pair of Christian Louboutins. Sweet Dreams, Indeed!