Red Shoe Diaries 134: Finding the One(s)

So when I was six, my favorite movies were, in order, The Ten Commandments and The Red Shoes. The plot of the first closely resembles the Biblical story by the same name, although the original had no special effects, nor Charlton Heston. The second movie, slightly less well-known, is the story of a classically trained ballerina who leaves ballet to marry the man she loves. Unfortunately, she can't put aside her love of dance, and when she dons her famous red shoes one last time and ascends the stage, she ends up plunging to her death (or maybe she catches on fire). (Just as a side note: the scene in Disney's Aladdin where Jafar imprisons Jasmine in an hourglass nearly made me sob with fear, but the slavery of the Israelites, the death of Pharaoh's firstborn son, and Victoria's fiery suicide did absolutely nothing for me. Interesting.)

The point is, even then, I realized that red shoes had a passionate, storied significance. Women who wore brown and black leather became investment bankers and internists. Women in red shoes, though? They became the artists and lovers of myth. (Or, in some cases, the artists and lovers of adult film. Oh well.)

So for the past several years, perhaps without even realizing it, I've been looking for the perfect pair of red shoes. I'll admit I've given in to all kinds of other colors and styles, bought them, worn them, and given them away to charity. But somehow I knew that I wouldn't be able to do that with the red shoes. When I found them, it wouldn't be casual. Needless to say, the people closest to me questioned my judgment.
"You know," my mom said delicately once, "I know you're growing up in a different culture, but don't you think you have...you know...too many?"
"Mom," I said, "If I don't try a lot of different shoes, how will I ever know what I really want?"
"Yes, but if you're looking for red heels, why settle for yellow chiffon flats or bronze peeptoe wedges or black leather boots?"
"I'm just waiting for the right ones to come along," I said defensively. And then she got very serious, looked at me across the span of the generations between us, and said wisely,
"One day, this instant gratification won't be enough anymore." She waited to make sure I understood. "One day, you'll realize you want shoes you can rely on. Shoes you can take to work, to home, to your parents house. Shoes you can pass on to your children."
"Mom, I don't want to have children anytime soon!" I cried, just so she knew.
"I know, but you have to realize you will never find perfect shoes. The heels will be too high, or the toes will pinch, or the color will be a little off. And you'll have to love them anyway."
"What are you saying?" I asked, alarmed.
"That there's no such thing as the ones. One day, you'll have to learn to settle."

But I refused to give in to that fogie logic. You might have settled, Mom, but I never will! I thought resolutely. I combed flea markets, discount warehouses and designer boutiques. I tried wedges, flats, boots and stilettos. I looked at leather, suede, canvas and satin. I looked in the United States, in Italy, in India. But I couldn't commit! At first my friends were excited to help me look, to sit with me when I rejected yet another pair, to start the search again. But eventually they grew tired. They had their own feet to take care of. I saw friend after friend purchase expensive pairs and walk away satisfied and I thought, what's wrong with me? Why can't I be happy like everyone else?

And then, last night, I walked into the Aldo sale shop on Fifth Avenue. And from across crowded aisles, I caught the gleam of flourescent light on a a red satin bow. I stopped breathing. The faces around me grew blurred, and as I moved towards the shelf, I thought that every moment in my life had somehow led up to this one. It can't be, I thought, pulling a pair of strappy red satin stilettos off the shelf. I sank onto the trial bench, knees weak.
"Can I...try these?" I asked the salesman. When he took them from me, I felt a strange pang of loss and another of jealousy. Don't touch my shoes! I thought. I looked at all the other people in the store, moving about their daily lives, and I thought, how can they not know?

He came back with a box. I unfolded the tissue and slid the shoes out of the box. Red satin, slim four-inch heels, tiny red gems and a bow on the toes. But really, no description can do them justice. I tried them on and realized that yes, they were a little uncomfortable, but I could learn to walk in them.

"Damn girl, those are hot," the salesman said.

"Oh, I know," I replied. I walked up the counter, a place I never thought I'd reach, and handed the box to the saleswoman. The blip of the scanner filled my hearing.

"These are on sale for $19.97," she said, and I looked up and I thought, This is the sign I've been waiting for. I handed her my credit card. I turned to my friend Angela, who had come in with me.
"Thanks," I said, "for waiting for me to do this." She smiled.
"I'm glad you're happy," she said.

This morning I got up and looked at those shoes again, and they looked just as good (if not better!) than the night before. Sure, they're pretty, rather than practical. But practical is what all the black flats are for. Mom, I thought, you were right. But some things are worth waiting for.