Three weeks ago, I went to the opera with a very stylish friend. Whenever we go out, she notices any new pieces (or in this economy, any recycled pieces from the far corners of my closet that she has never seen, or would not remember). I always return the favour. Everyone knows that women dress for other women, after all.
On this night of glamour, opera and friendship, I reached for my most prized pair of Christian Louboutin boots, bought last December as a birthday present to myself. I split that bill among several credit cards to lessen the four-figure blow.
The boots are sculpted from one piece of leather. No seams, just zippers up the inner calf. They are black, with four and a half inch heels, a high vamp and an almond-shaped toe. And of course they have Louboutin’s signature red sole. They are hot, hot boots.
I was wearing fishnet stockings, so my feet did not glide into the boots easily. Small diamond-shaped pillows of instep flesh swelled above the black thread of the fishnets as I stuffed my feet in and forced the zippers. I had worn these boots before and I would wear them tonight.
Somehow, I made it through Don Giovanni. The pain was worth it: during intermission, many women looked twice at my boots; one society doyenne even asked about their pedigree.
Afterwards, we teetered across the street to a local hotspot for drinks and gossip. It was a rather uncomfortable hundred steps, but the pain was quickly soothed by the wine and conversation. As we got up to leave, the last remaining patrons, two well-dressed businessmen from France, suggested we stay. The more handsome of the two looked at my happily married friend with bedroom eyes. The other one just looked at my boots, raised an eyebrow and smiled. We bid our would-be French lovers adieu and cabbed it back home to our families.
Stepping out of bed onto the hardwood floor the next morning, pain shot through the ball of my foot. I carried on, convincing myself that the irritation would fade away.
Three weeks later I am hiding out at home or in cafés and libraries with my laptop. Sporting large dark sunglasses, I hope not to bump into anyone I know. I have politely declined several invitations to large social engagements, fundraisers and parties. Outings are limited to off-the-radar and easily accessible locations.
I am now wearing a uniform of sweatpants and hoodies, thick socks and (gasp!) Birkenstocks. They have a special podiatric insert designed to keep pressure off the area behind my big toe, where that little twinge has developed into a shooting pain. I have searched in vain for a medical professional who will tell me that I will be able to wear my carefully curated shoe and boot collection again very soon. Instead, they all deliver grim warnings about the perils of my addiction and pamphlets about orthotics. Now a recurring nightmare involving custom-made orthopaedic shoes haunts me nightly.
I am waiting for X-ray results and probably have a stress fracture. A microscopic bone called the medial sesamoid may have been crushed by the boot, designed for no one’s foot, a platonic form of boot that should be on display somewhere forever for its sculptural perfection, a boot that I love deeply but will have to part with. At least for this season.
Anne-Marie Sorrenti is a Toronto-based freelance writer. The self-proclaimed lapsed lawyer is a mother of two and loves all things stylish. Her Style Counsel column appears monthly on lawandstyle.ca.