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.