This morning, it was with great sadness, but also relief, that I divested my closet of 100 pair of shoes and eight pair of boots. All were exquisite and in pristine condition. I loaded them into my shopping cart and dragged them in three trips to the Housing Works Thrift Shop on 17th Street where the proceeds from my beautiful shoes will be used to help homeless and (probably shoeless) people with AIDS.
Like Carrie Bradshaw, I had a $40,000 collection of designer shoes--100 pair of $400 shoes. While Carrie paid retail for her Manolo Blahnik's, Christian Laboutin and Prada, I bought mine at a discount at Anbar's on Reade Street because they were "last year's model." I paid $2000 for the same works of art that adorned Carrie's closet. To say the shoes were magnificent does not do them justice. My shoes were to shoes as Monet's Waterlilies were to impressionist painting. Deep purple suede with four inch spike heels. Lucious red leather with cuban heels. Teal ballet flats with a black patent leather bow. Animal lover that I am, I'm mortified to say I had shoes made not only from adult animals, but from baby animals as well. How I loved my spotted pony loafers, my gray calfskin boots and my baby crocodile oxfords. I was able to buy them only after convincing myself that the pony had been near death,the calf had a brain injury and the baby croc was stamped plastic.
Those of you who know me are thinking, "Manolo Blahnik's, Prada? I don't get it. All I've ever seen her in is Reeboks and maybe Saucony for special occasions."
You're right.
Although Carrie was a fool to pay twenty times what I paid, at least Carrie hobbled in them to the nearest taxi. I bought them, adored them, fondled them, exhibited them, displayed them, protected them. But I couldn't wear them. Whether because or in spite of their beauty and delicacy,these masterpieces were instant instruments of torture.
In Anbar, before making my purchase, I would put them on and walk around the store. Ignoring the stabbing pain between the third and fourth toe on my right foot and barely noticing the blister forming on my left heel, I would lie to myself, "They're actually pretty comfortable." I would purchase them, sure they'd be a wardrobe staple.
When it came time to actually wear them, I could only fantasize,
"If I'm carried on a litter, I might be able to make it to a cab." But I knew that wasn't realistic. I don't take cabs.
I now realize that amassing beautiful but lethal shoes was a compulsive disorder. I should have regarded Anbar as a shoe museum where the shoes were on exhibition for viewing only. Instead, I foolishly regarding it as a place to purchase footwear. Wiser now, I can say with certainty that I will never again purchase another pair of cripplers from Anbar. But that's only because they closed for good last month.

Why I'm Like Bob Dole

Before Bob Dole broadcast his erectile disfunction in prime time, impotence was a shameful secret. His disclosure made it acceptable to publicly divulge not only one's sexual inadequacies, but one's physical, emotional, skeletal and hormonal failings as well. These confessions, which used to be considered "TMI," are usually used to sell a product, but they also have salutory effect of making us feel our problems are shared by others. As you may have guessed, I'm about to discuss a problem, little spoken of, but much experienced: the after effects of diet ice cream.
In the beginning was Skimpy Treat. Resembling ice cream, but having only fifty calories for twelve ounces, it was sold out of a tiny deli on 40th Street, midblock between Broadway and 6th Avenue. It came in twenty four ounce cups, forty eight ounce cups and sixty four ounce vats. Every day at noon, there was a line of fatties stretching from the door of the deli to Broadway. Except on Sex and the City, nobody buying diet ice cream is thin. I'd get the twenty four ounce, take a leisurely walk in the neighborhood, retire to my office, close the door and wait. Within fifteen minutes, the symphony began. Toot...toot...toot,toot,toot...toot, toot. Delicately put, an atonal twenty minute percussion and wind symphony. Because a twenty four ounce portion produced twenty minutes of cacophony, I never risked the forty eight ounce for fear of setting off an air raid siren. I suspected that the people ordering the sixty four ounce schissel were involved in the demolition business. On the days I had afternoon meetings,out of consideration for my colleagues, I ate an egg salad sandwich.
Sadly,for unknown reasons, Skimpy Treat disappeared. Fortunately, it was soon replaced by Tasi-D-Lite. Even better than Skimpy, Tasti, with eighty calories for a "small," tastes like Carvel. Because there are Tasti franchises all over Manhattan, there are no lines. It comes in 107 flavors and you can get it topped with chocolate fudge, rainbow sprinkles, heath bar crunch, peanut butter chips or even fruit, if you're feeling virtuous. I want it every day, but it requires planning. It would be inconsiderate to have it before dance class. One plie and I'd empty the room. It would be counterproductive to have it before an oral argument. Who would hear my voice? It would be insane to have it before a job interview. Need I say why? So I have it Saturdays on my way home from dance class. I'm sure I offend the cat, but he hasn't complained or moved out.
You may view my confession as TMI. You may view it as loony. I view it as a public service to those who have shared my pain and thought they were alone.

Staring Down Death

I'm risk averse. On the infrequent occasions when I engage in a dangerous activity, I take reasonable safety precautions. Before hammering a nail into the wall, I don the steel toed boots Verizon issued me so I could safely climb telephone poles during the anticipated 2003 strike. I take the precaution because the slightest distraction could cause me to drop the hammer on my big toe, ending aspirations for a ballet career in my next life. (Verizon's reason for giving me the boots has never been clear. The main danger of working on a telephone pole would appear to be falling off it. Should that have happened, a parachute would have saved my life. Sixteen pound boots would have propelled downward to my death. But perhaps they had their reasons.) While my Weight Watcher's triple cheese lasagna is heating in the microwave, I busy myself in the bedroom closet, just in case the Enquirer articles about brain damage caused by proximity to microwaves prove true.
Yet, every morning and evening, defenseless, I flirt with death. I enter the kitchen and extract the 9 inch calcium pill from its Duane Reade bottle. It is, I've been advised. vital to avoiding shrinkage. Not that kind of shrinkage. The kind that would reduce me from my current 4'11 to Thumbelina. I place the calcium pill on my tongue and take a swig of orange juice. The pill gets caught at the back of my throat and I start to gag. Terrified, my thoughts race, "Am I dying?" "Should I perform the Heimlich maneuver on myself?" "Wait, I don't know how to perform the Heimlich." "Why did I pay more attention to my turkey burger than I did to the Heimlich poster?" After what seems like an eternity, I cough the pill into the sink.
Should I try again? I do a quick risk-benefit analysis. If I don't take it, I may fit into a toddler 4. Although that's a smaller size than I currently wear, something I would usually view as a positive, here, it is definitely a negative. If I do take it, I may choke to death in in my own kitchen. No one will find me for days and the cat, having no one to feed him, will gnaw at my corpse.
I feed the cat. I mull. I watch a Frazier rerun. I check my living will. I tell myself not to be a wuss. People perform life-threatening tasks every day. Look at firefighters. The bombsquad. The lox slicer at Fairway. If they can stare death in the face, so can I. I re-place the pill on my tongue. I take a swig of the orange juice. The pill gets trapped again in the rear of my throat. After several desperate "chs," it pops out.
Was this what you thought was coming? No, you thought I would give you a pretty ending. I'd swallow the pill, my bones would not deteriorate and you'd continue to be able to see me with the naked eye. Instead, I gave you reality. When they make multi-colored chewable Flintstone 600 mg calcium pills with D, I'll try again.