Late this summer I attended my first lingerie trade show, Curves, at the Venetian Hotel in Las Vegas. Much as I loved working the show, one of the highlights of my day at the fair had nothing to do with undergarments, although it had everything to do with sex appeal: namely my visit to the Christian LouBoutin boutique, home of the signature red-soled stilettos.
I have a passion for shoes, which I seem to have inherited from my daughter. Shoes should be either fun or beautiful or both—blue Mary Janes made from Brazilian rubber, sneakers of silver kimono fabrics, bejeweled copper sandals. Unlike my tall daughter who favors heels that put her on a par with her 6’3” brother, I’ve always insisted on shoes that I can walk in, that is, flats. But that may be changing.
I was sitting in the Double Helix bar with my assistant, Rachel, having a quick lunch of Cosmopolitans, pate on toast and mocha cake when I noticed the shoe store a few yards away. Although I had never seen even a single pair outside the pages of a magazine, I recognized the boutique, named after its French designer, at once. The prices were as high as I expected, well beyond my usual splurge, but the red-soled shoes were also more exquisite than I had imagined. Beautiful but barely functional. Although there were a few token pairs of pointy-toed flats, not even these looked comfortable. No, this was part of the beauty as torture, “no pain, no gain,” aesthetic. As a young feminist, I hadn’t seen the point. Now, with two bad knees and chronic heel pain, I didn’t dare to even try on a pair lest their gorgeousness sweep aside my common sense.
There is one pair in particular that haunts me, a pair of burgundy patent heels that seem like the couture version of Dorothy’s ruby slippers in “The Wizard of Oz.” For me, ruby slippers are a metaphor for my Kansas childhood, my fascination with the faraway, the maelstroms of life, and my belief that in the end, we come home to ourselves. In the third grade, I had my first and only starring role as the Wicked Witch of the West (she who melts away while trying to steal the magical slippers) in a neighborhood production. Now, as an adult, I keep a photograph of a pair of sparkly red high heels to remind me that I can always click my heels three times and (with a swipe of my credit card) find my way home to San Francisco.
Since coming back from Vegas, I seem to be seeing pictures of red-soled shoes everywhere. And I’ve learned that CB as well as other famous shoes designers have actually created crystal-studded ruby slippers for the upcoming 70th anniversary of the movie. Although I’m not ready to fly to Vegas just to buy a pair of shoes that I couldn’t stand in without pain and that cost nearly a month’s rent, I have realized that these lovely heels do have something in common with undergarments after all. Just as a well-fitting bra can compensate for gravity’s effects, so too can a pair of stilettos. And then there is the argument that I may not be 25 or even 38, but maybe I’m still young enough to learn how to walk in high heels, and certainly more able to now than I will be at 70.
In the meantime, in my dreams, I’m painlessly and pertly prancing down the yellow brick road in ruby stilettos, in absolutely no hurry to get anywhere.
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