Shoe Party for One

It’s Friday night and the plans you’ve been looking forward to all week have been cancelled. Sally begged off because an old lover is in town for just one night and well, he was a good, old lover.

But don’t worry, there is still Alexis who can always be counted on to turn a dull evening into one to be remembered, only she forgot about the plans and has already left town on business.

It really doesn’t matter anyhow because somewhere between this morning and evening you’ve developed a zit on your right cheek which warrants its own zip code. So, safe to say, this Friday night, you’re staying in. But wait, have I got news for you. You’re going to have a party, yep, just you and some very dependable friends. How do I know this? Well, by personal experience of course.

Every couple of months, okay, maybe it’s more like weeks, (I don’t want to paint a picture of a completely hopeless dame) I put on my sexist dress, pour myself a glass of wine, turn on some Broadway tunes, and raid my closet. Yep, I pull down all sixty-four boxes of my darling little shoe friends and the party is on! Now, not all of them get to come out because they’re a bit stuffy, out of style or just plain worn down, which means on the next day I have nothing to do, maybe I’ll clean out my closet. Anyhow, I’ve digressed.

So welcome to my party. First, let me introduce you to my brown suede peep-toe pumps with patent leather piping along the straps. So delicious, wearing these, I become a writer of the forties era in my London flat, much too serious to wear flirty high heels; I prefer the thick sturdy heel. I feel very smart in these shoes and so Virginia Woolf but flashier.

Next, meet my funky Betsy Johnson’s red sassy D’orsays lined in hot pink stitches with a bow on top. They make me want to dance, flirt and be absolutely fabulous. I feel like a flamingo dancer minus the rose between my teeth.