My New York City Day

I spent yesterday in New York City. The beautiful train ride, an orgy of magazine reading, a quiet well-behaved seat mate, all made the start of my day good. I splurged on a taxi to SoHo, visited the Varda Store—a shrine to timeless Italian design (one pair for summer); Kate’s Paperie—a sensual and textural wonder of paper (two packages of envelopes) and then another taxi to The Frick—one of the most elegant and wonderful small museums. The fountain room is so soothing, and I always do this kind of double take looking at some of the pieces on display: “Oh my God, that’s a real El Greco.”
In that small brownstone are works of art that are ubiquitous as images in Art History 101 so I have to remind myself that even though I have “seen” it a million times that this—this one at the Frick—is the Real Thing.

The downsides to this day? The worst is running the perfume gauntlet at Saks. The terror of the aggressive perfume sample ladies and their counterparts at cosmetic counters. It is fearful even to make eye contact with anyone of the first floor at Saks. A mere acknowledgement can result is being dragged to the counter and being re-made—even while you are sputtering, “Oh, no thanks, just shopping.”

The other is the “bourgeois-garde” of the folks who work in museums. In their desperate feeling attempt to declare their avant-garde status they all look the same: same black plastic eye-glasses, same eye brow shaping (male and female), same MOMA watch, same black clothes now—because “Color is Back” (says Barneys)—worn ironically. I want to whisper, “You look the same; you have lost the unique aesthetic you are attempting to convince us that you have.” These days someone who works in a museum and wears a pastel twin set and real pearls will be the iconoclast.

The other challenge of my city day was to remind myself that I can have a life—and an aesthetic—with or without John. It feels important these days to find ways to remember that. To reclaim a self and a separateness. Just in case we stay together and just in case we come apart.

New Shoes

I bought two pairs of shoes on vacation. The first are Cole Haan moccasins. A perfect saddle tan color that will burnish with wear and earn a lovely warm patina. My 15 year-old Coach moccasins were worn and torn beyond repair. I loved them from the day I bought them and every day for 15 years. The cost-per-wear on those old Coach mocs was excellent. They may have even begun to pay for these new shoes.

The second pair required more deliberation. I saw them on Tuesday and tried them, walked around the store, put them back, tried again. Then I left the store and came back Wednesday and tried them on again. These are boots, also a saddle-tan color and western looking with out really being a cowboy boot. They are above the ankle and have a 2 and a half inch stacked wooden heel. I felt tall and strong in these boots. Not Nancy Sinatra, no whip and no stiletto, but these boots are made for walking. Something in these boots I need right now. They make me taller but I can stride in them.

Why shoes? Does any woman have to ask?

High Heels

I am craving high heels. Specifically red high heels. I tried on a pair at Ann Taylor and wanted to walk out of the store in them. The thing I liked was that tiny bit of red peeping out of the front of my jeans and the way that stiletto heel looked in profile against the boot cut of denim. They were the wrong size but I almost bought them anyway. Then I tried another pair at J.C. Penny. That pair had a small platform and they were $25.00--more reasonable for shoes that are pure whim. Oh yeah, both pairs were red patent leather. Red patent leather high heels. I mean, could anything be more slutty? Oh and yes, both pairs were peep toe. They could easily be in the Victoria’s Secret catalog or in the Frederick’s catalog for that matter. I didn’t buy them but I came close.

So what gives? It’s chemo weekend and I am craving red high heels. Is there a connection? Maybe I have had too much therapy or read too much New Age philosophy and I think always that everything means something else.

It’s about desire for sure. But desire for what? The obvious: sex. Red patent leather peep-toe high heels are about sex, and sex is about life and energy and vitality. Maybe these spiked heels are a way to stake a claim for my energy and vitality. I’m not dying; I want to flash a neon sign that says: see me, feel me, hear me coming.