Coming-Back Shoes

As the pandemic rages, a former fashion editor muddles over her buying habits.

At the beginning of this infernal, eternal COVID-19 pandemic, I bought a couple of gallon-sized dispensers of hand sanitizer and, quite accidentally, a pallet of coconut milk.

Oh, and a couple of pairs of pretty (and pretty extravagant) sandals, including a beaded, tasseled green pair that looked like something a 1920s flapper might wear to jump into a fountain, plus a pair of jeweled platforms that smacked of hip-hop star.

I was thinking of them as “coming-back shoes,” aka what I’d slip on — midsummer 2020? — when we had the all clear to return to our normal lives. I’d debut the green sling backs at work with some wide-leg pants — probably more cocktail-party formal than cubicle-appropriate.

The bedazzled rhinestone platforms of great cost? Those would go with a sweep of a sundress for some summer dance show at the Kennedy Center, because surely, the cancelled ballets I had tickets to in the spring would be rescheduled? The shoes would spark conversations with the girlfriend I go to dance shows with, and they’d reflect moonbeams when we went outside to the deck for a drink at intermission. I’d be a middle-aged Dorothy from “The Wizard of Washington, D.C.”

I, Shopaholic?

I’m a fashion-y girl, a diagnosable shopaholic, so these sort of “clothe-my- feelings” purchases aren’t new. When I’m stressed, sad or sense the sands of the world shifting, I lay down money on something to wear — snakeskin boots, a vintage necklace, a silk dress that slides over the skin like a few yards of comfort.

Maybe it’s greedy materialism, the thrill of clicking the “buy now” button or the rush from connecting with a shopkeeper at a local boutique. Some of my most treasured conversations about style, royal gossip and politics have happened just outside dressing rooms or on a shoe try-on seat, while I slip into a new pair of loafers, fresh out of a colorful box like a promise or a special chocolate.

For me, there is euphoria in the hunt for clothing and the capture of what I think of as style trophies. Imagining wearing my new things makes me feel as if I can face obstacles or triumphantly do something daring or unexpected. A spindle-heeled knee boot could help me nail a job interview, a bright caftan is as good as a ticket on a Nile River cruise in Egypt.

In the latter, I will drape myself on the barge deck in the key of “Titanic” or Cleopatra. My husband is probably there with my crown and scepter, but it’s unclear what he’s wearing.

Glamour as Grief Therapy

When my mother told me she had terminal cancer more than two decades ago, I cried and comforted her. Then I spent too much money on expensive combat boots, ate a quarter pound of parmesan cheese directly from the fridge (no grating it or cutting a slice for me) and drank nearly a bottle of cheap white wine, in roughly that order.

The boots — brown, chunky and with squishy soles — looked like a cross between nurse clogs and something you’d pull on for a battle. They were warm and comfortable when I’d take Mom to chemo appointments or visit her in cold hospital rooms.

When she died two years later, it somehow seemed paramount to me that I purchase the most austere, best-cut black dress Ann Taylor had on offer to wear to her funeral. “You’ll never put on that dress again,” said my friend Rebecca.

She was right.

But somehow, at least on the unbearably sunny day of her memorial service, the sheath — Audrey Hepburn-ish severe and cut close to the body — became both a suit of armor and a tribute to my devastatingly fashionable mother. If she couldn’t be at this event where people said lovely things about her, cried and read from F. Scott Fitzgerald, at least I’d dress properly and represent, keeping it together for my Dad, widower-ed at the youngish age of 62.

I wept later at the wake as I hid in the bathroom at my parents’ house, soaking the black crepe bodice of the dress. The Ann Taylor clerk had been right about it being made of performance fabric — there were no water stains on it when I snuck back into the party.

A Shopping Bag Full of Confidence

A few years ago, a magazine I’d helped to launch folded, and I found myself suddenly out of work. Shocked and sad, I cleared out my desk, left the office and dropped by a favorite downtown boutique on my walk home. There was solace in the hug from my shop owner friend as well as in the pink pencil skirt and peplumed blouse I bought. Its pretty, tissue-filled shopping bag crinkled with optimism.

I was deeply upset by my job loss, waylaid by depression and doubt in the following weeks. I put on many pairs of sweatpants and several pounds, fueled by takeout nachos and tumblers of wine.

But for several networking coffees and at least one job interview, I donned the new skirt and blouse. Almost magically, my displaced confidence and swagger returned. Maybe those bits of cotton and silk — paired with pointy-toed pumps — were holy raiments, alchemizing me back into the assured professional I’d been.

The outfit didn’t get me the first job I interviewed for, but eventually, in some nice dress or sharp blazer, I righted my ship and sailed back into a series of fresh opportunities and new offices. It was a relief to catwalk my overdressed carcass back into the 9-to-5 world.

In Defense of Compulsive Shopping

Impulse buying gets a deserved bad rep. Shrinks say it’s just another addiction, akin to gambling or cocaine. Over shopping can rack up credit cards and ruin lives.

I am a woman who loves to browse and buy, getting the kind of frisson going into a shoe department or small boutique that sports fans might feel at a baseball stadium or art lovers look forward to at a gallery opening. (Though at the latter, painters and photographers do tend to wear —or appreciate — a snazzy pair of pumps.)

But I believe, when faced with a setback or crisis, maybe you can dress or buy your way out of things, at least for little while. Call it wishful spending, this belief that a pair of shiny sandals or a romantic, rose-print dress can change the outcome of anything. Do my panic purchases work magic or bring me luck?

In these strange, still half-quarantined times, maybe pandemic sandals and job-loss skirts represent a form of hope. I don’t want to think of myself as like Charles Dickens’s Miss Havisham, traipsing around the house in fancy shoes and party dresses that’ll never see the light of day or night, except on a Zoom calls.

Sandals with a Side of Hand Sanitizer?

I finally put on the green sandals to go to a far-apart outdoor dinner on a friend’s porch last month. It was still warm enough I didn’t need to layer them over tights. She saw them from six feet away. “Those are nice shoes, I love the color,” she said.

“I do too,” I said, sitting down and taking off my matching mask. It was one of the most pleasant conversations I’ve had in months.

I’m not sure when the other jeweled pair will make their dazzling debut. But I can see the shiny sandals as I navigate a sunny sidewalk sometime in 2021. The lights of the party I’m heading to glow before me, and I hear the roar of the crowd.

It’s going to be a hell of a night.