Fashion Crisis

This Saturday evening Steven and I are going to a fancy-schmancy Upper East Side 30th birthday party hosted by a fashion designer whose son happens to be a friend of Steven's. Naturally neither one of us has anything to wear, since I have been alternately pregnant and lumpy for an entire year, and Steven, sadly, has put on a few pregnancy pounds himself. That and the fact that we pretty much never leave the house any more.

So two weekends ago I treated myself to a cute new party dress from one of my favorite trendy New York stores. As the sales clerk was wrapping up the dress I asked her what kind of shoes she would recommend wearing, since the dress is a bright blue color.

"Black," she shrugged. "Or maybe camel."

I chewed on my lip for a moment. "I have a pair of bronze sandals," I said. "What do you think about those?"

A smile crossed her lips, and, I swear to God, she started to bounce up and down. "Omigod, that would be so great! That just gave me shivers!"

As I left the store, shopping bag slung over my shoulder, it occured to me that the sales clerk probably thought I meant I had some high-heeled, strappy bronze sandals in my closet. In reality what I have are sort of beat up flat sandals which, the more I thought about it, simply wouldn't do. And so, over the course of the past two weeks, I have become more and more obsessed with finding the shoes that I imagine the store clerk to be imagining.

In my mind, it probably boils down to these:

And here is where we have a problem. I like to be able to do things like, say, walk, in my shoes. I also like to be shorter than my husband. Neither of these things are possible in four-inch stilettos. Somehow before I became a mother things like wearing sexy shoes seemed silly. But now it's almost like I feel like I have something to prove. Just because I'm a mom doesn't mean I can't wear absurdly fashionable, painful clothing. What did you expect, that just because I am now responsible for taking another human being's temperature rectally I would show up wearing Pumas?

Not that anyone expects those things of New York mothers. After all, my grandmother wore ridiculously high shoes until her 80s. And yet, I find myself wanting to be extra un-dowdy. While simultaneously wanting to be able to walk. I'm not sure where this will leave my feet on Saturday evening. I guess they'll go wherever I take them. Probably in low-heeled black sling backs.