"A Woman's Love Affair With Shoes" #MeToo by Christine Kelly
Written by Kelly in April 2010 as response to a writing prompt about a woman's relationship with footwear. The prompt was sent to Kelly by her London-based sole mate (bff with all the same shoes as you)..
The submissions, curated by a mysterious woman only known as Princess Dominique, were meant to be published in an anthology entitled "The Perfect Pair". Kelly's piece was selected for inclusion, but she declined the opportunity upon reading the contract. Instead, she retained her intellectual property rights to self-publish her story on a rainy day. Today is that day. Enjoy!
"Christine, you absolutely, positively cannot afford these shoes under any circumstance," my inner monologue wisely counseled. "Exit Selfridge's immediately".
My feet, swathed in an exquisite pair of five-inch high Christian Louboutin Very Prive patent leather peep-toe pumps, stood firm and refused to listen. In their defense, it was the first pair of Louboutin’s they had ever tried on. Clearly they knew they were home.
My feet were out of touch with reality and could not be blamed for how quickly they had embraced this new lifestyle. On three days notice they had effortlessly trotted the globe, swapping cozy Ugg boots in cold Chicago winters for strappy sandals in sun-drenched Dubai. It was a lot of stress, and they deserved a little treat, right?
Plus there was that totally confusing price tag. How was I supposed to know the conversion rate? I had just landed in London with barely enough time to check into Claridge’s and say hello to my Aunt, much less swap out my dirhams for pounds.
“Fantastic!” my Wisconsin-born Aunt/Godmother Cindi shouted, bringing me back to reality. “The red heels are so sexy – look at that!”
She clearly had no idea that this strategically placed, very precise shade of red had catapulted Louboutin to an iconic status within the fashion world. Nor that my Mother would kill her if she found out my Aunt had encouraged such a superfluous purchase.
The saleswoman caught on, and started to eye me suspiciously. “These are the only pair left in the country,” she said slowly, circling me like a shark. “They won’t have them in the US for months. We never get them in your size, and when we do they sell out instantly”.
I started to panic. I needed these shoes.
They could be a souvenir, I rationalized. I really hadn’t spent any money in my three weeks in Dubai. The entire trip had been underwritten by princes and other royalty – the lavish dinners, over-the-top nightlife, multi-million dollar penthouse apartments, fancy cars and luxury yachts.
Plus London was quickly turning into all work and no play. I had been roped into a week-long shoot and media tour with a celebrity for an advertising campaign by a co-worker. The following week I’d be working out of our new London office to teach the team to negotiate talent and music deals. I was preparing myself for long hours, fancy client dinners and zero sight-seeing or shopping. I was also living a fantasy.
I glanced down at the shoes one more time. My feet, usually awkward and clunky, suddenly looked as sleek and stylish as my new life. Here I was, a million miles from home, staying at the best hotel in the world, sipping champagne on a nightly basis and breezily chatting with foreign globetrotters. These shoes would let me stand on my own in this unchartered territory.
With a flick of my wrist, I handed over my AMEX and made the single most expensive purchase of my life. To this day I have no idea how much they cost – I could not bring myself to look at the bill when it came in. By that point I was back in knee-deep piles of dirty snow, and the shoes had been safely tucked away in my closet. A practical purchase they were not.
They did, however, serve so many other purposes. I felt on top of the world as women enviously glared at me and men smiled in appreciation upon catching a glimpse of that red sole.
One day, as I sauntered down Michigan Avenue, a very fashionable young woman stopped me and asked me where I had purchased them.
“Selfridges in London,” I said proudly. “They’re Louboutin's”.
“Oh, of course,” she said, giving a nod of approval. “They’re gorgeous.”
The shoes also gave me the confidence to get out of a terrible situation. Before leaving for Dubai, I had been in an abusive relationship with a man who had torn me apart. The situation had bled into my work life, and I felt trapped and helpless. So I packed my bags and ran as far away as I could to free myself.
That trip changed my life, and the shoes are an everlasting symbol of its success. It has been exactly one year since I stood in that boutique at Selfridge’s. It was there I realized that in Chicago my interests and personality never seemed to align with what surrounded me. So when the trip was over I moved to New York, where I feel as at home now as my feet did then in those Louboutin's.
In the year that’s followed I let go of toxic friendships, boy friends and work situations. I gained new friendships with the most inspiring and supportive people I have ever met. I dated male models and attended Fashion Week. I changed jobs, and gained recognition in my industry, as well as a much larger salary.
So I guess it makes sense that when I got my first paycheck I grabbed one of my new stylist friends and took him to the Yves Saint Laurent boutique. I sat down and slipped my feet into a six-inch pair of black Tributes and a six-inch pair of hot pink suede Tribute sandals. Without blinking, I told them to wrap them up and handed over my AMEX yet again.
Today my tiny, adorable shoe-box sized apartment in SoHo is boasting a serious designer collection. There are the three pairs of Chanel ballet slippers I picked up from vintage stores, the Lanvin flats I found on sale in a boutique, the Brian Atwood and Bruno Frisoni pumps a publicist gifted me, and the amazing Givenchy boots, Marni platforms and Chloe heels I wrestled from New York’s holy-grail of shoe shopping – The Barney’s Warehouse sale.
The Louboutins still sit on my shelf amidst my recent acquisitions. I hate to say this but I rarely wear them anymore. Yet no matter how pressed for space I am, I will never get rid of those shoes. They taught me that I have the ability to successfully walk out of one life and into another. And while they may have cost more than a month’s rent, to me that kind of support is priceless.
Just don’t tell my mother…
About the author: Christine shares her SoHo apartment with a fashionable gay man and a ne'er-do-well mouse they call "Bernard." A talent buyer by day, Christine enjoys discovering new bands and dabbling in interior design. On any given evening, however, she can to be found traversing New York's ancient cobblestone streets in six-inch heels, a skill she hopes to master one day. This is Christine's first published work.