I think I was eight when my obsession with clothes began. Maybe I inherited the gene (or jeans) from my mom and the women who came before her, or perhaps from her lifestyle.
Every August, before school began, my dad would drive me from the Brooklyn projects where we lived to meet my fabulous Aunt Florrie at her shop in Forest Hills. There, she would let me pick out anything, and I mean everything I wanted. If she thought my mom might disapprove, she'd let me have it anyway. They were best friends and they liked to poke at each other like that, for the fun of it.
The shop was called "The Village Set." Imagine sixties hippie meets urban cool.
At eight years old, my social life didn't call for such a wardrobe. And I certainly didn't need olive green suede boots. But I would die without them. I had to have those boots. And Aunt Florrie never said "no."
I loved the way the smooth nap changed its texture when I rubbed the suede. Putting them on made me feel special. I was obsessed with those boots.
On the day I wore them on my walk to the book mobile, major boot mishap. The book mobile that looked sort of like a trailer and sort of like a bus had a set of steps to get you in and let you out. I did my thing, picked my books, checked them out, and descended the stairs. What was this? Something felt terribly wrong. My legs felt weirdly uneven. Looking down at my feet, I saw that my heel had gotten free from the boot.
I did the only thing I could do. There were no mobile phones to call mom to get me. I picked up the heel and hobbled home, feeling like Pippi Longstocking who walked with her one foot on the sidewalk and the other in the gutter.
Funny thing about those boots, I don't remember what happened to them. If the shoemaker repaired them or if they were retired to the bottom of my closet, or given away, I just don't know. But I will never forget them just as I'll never forget tottering home...as though it happened just the other day.
