The Red Shoes

And so dance, and dance and dance, she did. Over highest hills and through the valleys, in the rain and in the snow and in the sunlight, she danced. She danced in the darkest night and through sunrise and she was still dancing in twilight as well. But it was not good dancing. It was terrible dancing, and there was no rest for her.

"The Red Shoes", from Women Who Run With the Wolves

Clarissa Pinkola Estes

The good news is that the poor girl's wretched life is saved by an executioner who cuts off her feet to free her from the fatal pair of red shoes. She watches in shock as her feet and shoes continue dancing into eternity and she is left a cripple fit only to spend the rest of her life being a servant to others. "The Red Shoes" isn't a pretty fairy tale even if not taken literally. To live with a crippled psyche is also a nasty proposition. Let's face it. It seems a brutal end for a girl who is only hungry for a little creativity and passion in her life. But on whatever level, if fairy tales are to be believed, an impulse to buy a pair of red shoes in the dead of winter may bear closer scrutiny.

My red shoes story really begins several months ago when my friend Lex gave me two pieces of "diner" dishware to add to my collection. She found them in one of those antique/collectible stores in the old Mall and they were exceptionally nice. I made a mental note to try and find the store soon and see what other goodies it might have. Little did I suspect that the dishes would turn out to be only the lure that would lead me to the red shoes. That is, if you think as I do that everything in life happens as it should and it's up to us to drive ourselves crazy trying to figure out what it means.

Last week I finally had time to see if I could find the store with the dishes after finding myself at the old Mall with some time to kill. Many of the stores that fit Lex's description were closed but through the windows I couldn't see anything promising. I am just about ready to leave when I spot one that is open and looks like it has possibilities. In I go with an eagle eye for a quick scan that's stopped short when I see THEM.

There on the floor is a pair of 1940's red high-heeled shoes, open- toed with one big red leather flower apiece on the top. All of a sudden there's nothing else in the store but these red shoes and I sense they are meant for me. I feel their power as I am drawn in for a closer look. I pick them up and touch the smooth leather, feel the sturdiness in the platform heels and imagine the "jitterbugs" they have danced. My heart beats a little faster. They're my size. When I see they are only ten dollars, I kick off my boots and try them on. "Wouldn't you know," I reflect to myself, "they fit like they were made for me." Or at least, they are close enough.

I put them back and walk around a little more taking time to rationalize my desire to have them. I mean, not five minutes before these shoes didn't exist but now I can't live without them. What is going on? I am seduced. They beckon to me like a beacon in the greyness of winter. They defy the reality of slush and snow. They dance. They invite me to kick up my heels and do the Fandango. They call to my wilder nature. These are shoes meant for serious play.

I buy them and bring them home and immediately share my excitement with my youngest son. "Here, let me try them on," I say, seeing his doubtful look as I hold them up out of the plastic bag. I know my black leggings and socks don't really do them justice. I wobble at first and laugh at my ineptitude. It has been awhile since I have worn heels. Eventually I am able to fall into a reasonable strut.

"They're real different, mom," he manages to say diplomatically. I'm quick to read behind the lines. "What is it," I ask, "the flowers?" "Kinda the whole thing," he says after a moments' hesitation.

I don't even care. All I know is they make me feel alive. I wipe off some of the dust and give them a quick polish with the sleeve of my shirt before carefully placing them in the corner of my bedroom. It takes a few days for me to show them to my husband for fear of being thought frivolous, although he really doesn't mind. Of course I manage to undermine myself by saying, "I'm not sure where I will wear them." He picks up on this lead and allows the laugh he is holding inside to escape as a snort. "I was going to say, where would you WEAR shoes like that?"

I am still not defeated. Yet. It takes the next day when I am greeted at the front door by Devin with a horrified look on his face. "Mom, you're gonna be upset. Maybe you'd better sit down." "What, what, what?" I'm thinking nearing a state of panic but still unsuspecting. He tries to break it to me gently. "Max chewed up your new red shoes."

I imagine my head spinning around like Linda Blair's in the "Exorcist" to take in the scene in the middle of the living room rug. There, the cur cowers, managing to muster a feeble wag of his tail in the midst of damage that looks like it has been left by a hurricane. At least half a dozen shoes are strewn in various stages of disrepair. And right in the middle lie both of my new red shoes minus the flowers and damp with dog saliva. "I've already REALLY yelled at him about it!" Devin's voice comes crashing into the reality I am having a difficult time grasping.

Max doesn't look remorseful enough to me. I know he's desperate enough to thrive on negative attention but I give him more anyway causing him to piddle as he tries to crawl past me and out the door. I throw up my hands when I see my kids' wide eyes and realize the absurdity of the situation. I know it is time for reassessment and internally console myself. "Take it easy. You are upset over a 'material' loss. The true joy of red shoes comes in being able to IMAGINE them for yourself. There is creativity and passion and a glimpse of spring in that act alone. For a few moments the drabness of winter was transcended.You don't have to really ever WEAR them."

And after having thought about the girl in the fairy tale, maybe it's best I never really did wear them. Or who knows, I might have been last seen dancing out of control across a field near Gumboro.

Kick your heels up! Send Kelley some mail.