The play is another act of brilliance on the part of Nora and Delia Ephron, a must see for women. If you're like me you'll leave thinking about your own list of what you wore.
The lemon yellow A line dress with the mandarin collar, puff sleeves and white piping my mother made for me. I wore it on our class trip to the Metropolitan Opera to see Tosca. My white Go Go boots that I couldn't afford in real leather and made my feet sweat but I wore anyway because they made me feel so cool. The purple suede Hobo bag I thought I might die if I did not own that my brother bought me one Christmas at A&S. The hand painted tuxedo shirt I bought at the end of a trip to Aspen that I never wore once but could not throw out, certain the right occasion would manifest. The zebra Capri pants that I was told only I could pull off that my dry cleaner managed to lose.
But mostly I have been thinking about the Boots.
The Boots have been with me for the better part of the last two decades. They have lived in Philadelphia and DC. They moved back to New York with me. They have walked in snow in Aspen, Vail, Jackson Hole and Lake Tahoe. They have seen every major snowstorm in whatever city I was living in at the time. They have fallen in love and out of love. They have caused people to stop me and ask where I got them. They have provoked looks of disdain and looks of longing.
I have been thinking about the Boots for the last two weeks. Ever since that first big snow. I put them on and heard a flapping noise. The gum sole had pulled apart from the boot. Again. I had tried to repair them twice. Each time the glue managed to seep inside making them smaller and tighter. This time I knew. The Boots had seen their day. It was time. I was going to have to let go of them.
As the play suggests, clothes for women are generally more than the article themselves. They contain history. They evoke how they make you feel when you wear them. And when I wore the Boots I felt safe.
They were always a struggle to get on. No zippers. And a struggle to get off. But once on they were like wearing bedroom slippers only much cooler and much sexier. My feet were warm and dry, no matter the elements.
I bought my Tecnicas in Bloomingbirds in Aspen. I think it was 1991 but I can't be sure. There was a lot that was outrageous about buying them at the time. The price for one. But when my feet were comfy inside, the world looked a bit different.
I am not sure I can really throw them out. Maybe. I've had so much change the last year and a half I am not sure I am ready to let go of one more thing. Perhaps I can just store them in a box in the back of the closet for a while until I get used to my new ones. But then that's the other thing. Where am I going to find a replacement pair? Or will I?