Boulevard of Broken Heels
In the pantheon of heartbreak — subset, fashion — there is a special place for the wrenching image of a brand new pair of suede strappy heels, splattered with mud on their very first outing. Or the sight of a stiletto heel collapsing mid-gait – even when you’ve done your damnedest to avoid the subway grates! Or the horrific discovery that the top of your Louis Vuitton boot – the one with the gold dice on the zippers, made of the softest calfskin – has been scraped by a jagged little piece of metal cruelly lurking unbeknownst to you underneath your desk… Take it from me: It feels like flesh being torn asunder.
These were, for the love of god, the boots that not a week earlier I had so scrupulously protected from even the hint of drizzle by taking them off, stashing them in my Herve Chapelier bag and making a male friend carry me from casino to casino on the Atlantic City boardwalk. (Don’t ask.)
It is, to quote Alanis, like rain on your wedding day. Only it ain’t ironic. Just tragic.
Tears in my eyes, I scooped up the dozen tiny flecks of leather into a Ziploc like some fashion CSI and took the boots straight to my most trustworthy shoe repairman. He frowned at me – chastised me even! – and warned that this would be a delicate operation, that they may never be the same again.
And no, they weren’t. While the scars on the surface were obvious only to me, the inner pain was too much to bear. Before long, those boots had gone from only-on-0%-humidity-days to my designated winter boots. I walk alone, I walk alone…
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