January 12, 2007

I found mold and mildew in my closet last night. It had eaten 2 pairs of shoes - my Givenchys and Costume National, and boy where they both expensive and high heeled. It seems right somehow that these were the shoes to be eaten, because I have not worn them since becoming a mother, since even before that when I first became impregnated. They've lain in their boxes for more than 2 years, so beautiful and sexy; they're shoes from a wild time in Miami when I was a ballerina and a size 6 seductress. When I found them it was too late. They could not be saved. The grey green mold had taken over both of them completely, and there were fuzzy little black polka dots on the bottom of the Italian leather soles. The gold buckle still shone through - reminding me that I had worn them to Art Basil; Aaron had carried me to cross the road when I realized that a lot more walking was ahead in these shoes not made for walking, but for swaying in a tight dress.

Now I wear sensible flat shoes, mostly less than $99. I have been looking for shoes again lately, I must confess. Expensive shoes that also fit into the mothering lifestyle. Good arch support but not orthopedic looking shoes are hard to come by. I've almost given up and am thinking about wearing my old point shoes around, walking the halls of Citigroup demi-point in pink ribbons. I am plie-ing again in the office kitchen, bathroom, wherever I find myself alone in front of a reflection. I am stretching out my hamstrings while looking through files. I am teaching Olive how to turn and port de bra back. I am writing love emails to Aaron, in the style of Spanish poets.

This year I will be a ballerina and a lawyer and a mother and a writer and a lover.

Happy New Year.