ELLE magazine has been running a fashion story contest called "Love, Loss and What I Wore" since September. The deadline is this Saturday. So in my usual procrastinating style, I just finished the draft. Here goes.
I was about six-years old when I became an extra on Soul Train. Donning a different pair of my mom's high heels for every episode, I strut my stuff all over our living room until I was out of breath. That's what I meant when I said I was an "extra." I hope you weren't just wracking your brain for memories of the little white girl shaking it with the best of them. I was shaking it on the other side of the screen.
My entire ensemble typically consisted of a sideways ponytail, red lipstick, my New Kids on the Block or Strawberry Shortcake nightgown and her shoes. My mom had a collection of high heels in every color, style and textile imaginable. Green crocodile, red patent leather, navy blue suede, tan calfskin, all on the tallest of pins. I can still picture them lined up in her closet, just begging to be worn--and flung across the room for my big finale. They were magnificent. And they personified my visions of the perfect woman--beautiful, cool and interesting. Her shoes were the Holy Grail of grown-up attire. I couldn't slip my tiny feet into them fast enough.
Dancing in front of Soul Train wasn't about putting on a performance for anyone. Though obviously I called my family into the room to witness the shoe-flinging finale a time or two. I loved to dance, but my real enthusiasm stemmed from the joy of pretending I was her. When I wobbled around in her shoes, I imagined being the cool girl whom everyone wanted to dance with. In my young eyes, two-toned stilettos and Obsession perfume went a long way in making that happen.
One day I realized that my mom had thrown away her collection of long-since worn high heels. I couldn't believe it. Had she not anticipated that my feet would grow to exactly her size? Did she think I would turn my nose up at a vintage collection of footwear that carried her from disco nights into motherhood? How wrong she was. I would give anything for those shoes. One, it would save me a hell of a lot of money in my wardrobe budget. But more importantly, it would mean the world to finally walk in them as my own grown-up version of the woman I always wanted to be.
I was about six-years old when I became an extra on Soul Train. Donning a different pair of my mom's high heels for every episode, I strut my stuff all over our living room until I was out of breath. That's what I meant when I said I was an "extra." I hope you weren't just wracking your brain for memories of the little white girl shaking it with the best of them. I was shaking it on the other side of the screen.
My entire ensemble typically consisted of a sideways ponytail, red lipstick, my New Kids on the Block or Strawberry Shortcake nightgown and her shoes. My mom had a collection of high heels in every color, style and textile imaginable. Green crocodile, red patent leather, navy blue suede, tan calfskin, all on the tallest of pins. I can still picture them lined up in her closet, just begging to be worn--and flung across the room for my big finale. They were magnificent. And they personified my visions of the perfect woman--beautiful, cool and interesting. Her shoes were the Holy Grail of grown-up attire. I couldn't slip my tiny feet into them fast enough.
Dancing in front of Soul Train wasn't about putting on a performance for anyone. Though obviously I called my family into the room to witness the shoe-flinging finale a time or two. I loved to dance, but my real enthusiasm stemmed from the joy of pretending I was her. When I wobbled around in her shoes, I imagined being the cool girl whom everyone wanted to dance with. In my young eyes, two-toned stilettos and Obsession perfume went a long way in making that happen.
One day I realized that my mom had thrown away her collection of long-since worn high heels. I couldn't believe it. Had she not anticipated that my feet would grow to exactly her size? Did she think I would turn my nose up at a vintage collection of footwear that carried her from disco nights into motherhood? How wrong she was. I would give anything for those shoes. One, it would save me a hell of a lot of money in my wardrobe budget. But more importantly, it would mean the world to finally walk in them as my own grown-up version of the woman I always wanted to be.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment