I know, I know, I've been neglecting you all shamefully. I'm a bad person. But I always have shoes on my mind. Having not posted in so long, I've got a lot of thoughts saved up.
One thing that bothered me all summer is the construction of closed toe shoes. Pumps in particular. Now, I know, many of you don't wear pumps in the summer. You like your perfectly polished tootsies to be free. I understand. But sometimes, the toes can't be showing. That's when I pull out the pumps. I have a pair of red 3" heels that I love. I also have a pair of black round toe 2.5" pumps that I like a lot. In both cases, I find it disconcerting to put them on, and realize as I walk down the halls of my office that I squeak. Loudly. SQUEAK SQUEAK SQUEAK. People can hear me coming. Do you know where that sound is coming from? Not the leather of the shoes. Not the sole. It comes from my polished toenails rubbing against the inside top of the shoe as I walk. This is a dilemma! Polished and groomed toes are most important, but so is gliding silently down the hall. What to do? I have come upon a solution. I line the tops of my pumps with moleskin. Voila! (or walla as I've seen some unfortunates spell it) Problem solved. I can once again glide gracefully through my day.
Speaking of my day, the recent end of one is something worth sharing. Early last week, I was walking up Park Avenue on my way to the E train at 53rd & Madison. Of course, I was checking people out. As my eyes shot back and forth, looking for something interesting to see, they stopped short upon spying a Manolo bag. Oh, to be that woman, walking down the street with a pair of the holiest of holies slung over her shoulder! What is she wearing? You expect her to look as fabulous as the shoes in her bag. Er, well, no. She was tall, willowly, and had no ass. She did, however, have a crack as wide as the Grand Canyon. How do I know? Because she was wearing a pair of chartreuse raw silk pants, and they were being sucked into it. And what wasn't being sucked into a national park was hanging awkwardly off her hips. It was the strangest thing I've seen. I can't recall what else she was wearing because I was so morbidly fascinated by her atomic wedgie.
I followed her down the street, reaching for my cell phone. This was important. I had to make the call. Not 911, although her wedgie could be construed as a medical emergency. I called the proper authorities. Liesl. Who had the nerve to be unavailable.
The only conclusion I can draw from this experience that there were no Manolos in that bag. She had the bag, but was probably carrying leftovers from her lunch in it.
Manolo Blahnik Satin and Lace Pump
Saturday, September 30, 2006