Covetworthy

This year is barely one month old, and yet 2010 presents me with a question for the ages: exactly how much pain can I endure from a shoe?

Don’t answer in haste. You need to know the details first. This is not just a shoe. It is The Most Beautiful Shoe in the World.  It stretches my leg to amazonian heights. Adds some potent swish to my stride. This is SuperShoe – able to leap cryptic dress codes in a single bound. (“Festive Formal Chic”? “Creative Corporate Cool”? Foiled!)

How did I happen upon SuperShoe?  It happened two days ago when I came face to face with a familiar foe – the Macy’s designer shoe sale. (Shoe sales are my Kryptonite. I am utterly powerless in their midst.)  In one 45-minute frenzy, I tried on fourteen pairs of shoes. Calling on the fortitude of the ancestors, I settled on two.  Both impossibly high heels that make my calves go on for millennia. (Nevermind that one pair is a full size too small.)  These shoes can be reached from now on at the following address: Stacey’s Closet, Bad Ass Division, Cubby 1 and Cubby 2.

And suddenly as I was making my exit, she called out to me from her perch high atop a hidden rack. SuperShoe is lavender (my favorite) with black piping, satin finish with a tiny bow (so femme), a 5-inch heel. And a hefty FIFTY PERCENT OFF discount to boot. Boo-yah!

So what kind of pain are we talking about here? On a scale of 1 being pebble-in-your-sock-irritation and 10 as Chinese foot binding, it’s about a 4.5. But that’s just walking around the marshallowy carpet in the store. What happens when I take Baby Doll out in my hardwood, concrete and unevenly-paved ‘hood?  *Sigh*

But…she’s just so pretty.  There’s not another in my life like SuperShoe. She deserves a permanent home befitting the lifestyle for which she was so lovingly created. And Cubby 3 is vacant. What to do????

I had a fantastic dinner a while back that ended with the host showing us his latest purchase: a Ferrari. I’m no car girl but I had to admit it was breathtaking. (And what I do know is Husband looked at, and subsequently rubbed on, said vehicle in a way that made me avert my eyes.) A girlfriend there asked, so what’s the equivalent of a dream car for us? The dream closet. I readily agree.

Think about the parallels. The currency of the dream closet is not horsepower, but square footage. No need for speed here–I want space, preferably something with double zeros at the end. Oh, and I’ll take climate control over cruise control any day.

To me, the real value in the dream car or closet is being able to live out the Fantasy. It’s what offered behind the wheel, behind the door, albeit briefly. In my dream closet, all my once and future purchases reside, those items to adorn me while I fulfill every dream I ever had for myself. That book I’ve yet to write? Still a loose outline, but here’s the D&G skinny suit I’m wearing to the launch party. And while I patiently await that CFDA Awards invitation, I already chose my Choos.

I’ve been in this mode for a long time. Before “The Secret.” Before manifesting anything, I have been a firm believer in “in order to be it, you gotta see it.” So much of that Fantasy life is rooted in my Realife, just with more fantastical settings and ripped-from-the-headlines personalities mingling alongside my Real friends. Example? A quick grab-and-dash at Quizno’s becomes brunch with the girls at Cipriani’s, and by girlfriends, I mean my college bfs plus Diane von Furstenberg, Ms. O and Mrs. O.

Simply put, the dream closet serves a vital purpose in my life. It begets more dreams. I am limitless there. I’m never someone else, I’m always me, just more sure-footed and secure in all those fabulous threads. And sometimes, just sometimes, those outfits step out of my imagination and inspire ensembles that make appearances in my reality. And I’m the only one who knows they first started as a dream.

Surely, I’m not the only girl living the dream. Have you ever made the dream attire a reality? Share your story here. Names and identifying details will be altered to protect the innocent (most likely from 1980s fashion crimes…)