Where Did Sexy Go?

Or, the Footwear makes the woman. This thought comes to me as I unwrap two new pairs of shoes. I know - my resolution to hold off on reckless consumption lasted as long as it took the Nine West Web site to load (which was a long time, I have a slow Internet connection) - but who cares? These beauties are for work. They have square toes, low heels, and sleek velvet exteriors. These shoes are Lincoln Town Cars. They are going somewhere fast, and they have important people inside.

And the second pair? Well, that's a whole different story. I admit, there's some lace action going on, and an open toe, and three inch heels (who says size doesn't matter?). It's possible that these shoes don't have their mind on the issues, that they tell dirty jokes, that they come with a matching lace flask and lingerie. It's possible.

The other day, I told my parents that I'd given up high heels. "They're not practical," I said.
"That's so true," my Dad agreed. He puts his money where his mouth is - we went shoe shopping early last year. When we got into the store, I took off my sneaks and walked around in front of a weathered septuagenarian, who stared as I walked (his eyes on the same level as my knees). I did a few turns around the store. The man straightened, looked me in the eye, and said gravely, "I'm sorry to tell you this, but you pronate." At my look of horror he added, "But don't worry, we caught it in time." And he brought out boxes and boxes of heavy white sneakers with medial posts and reinforced arches.
"Um...do you have anything in black or silver?" I ventured. He and my Dad looked shocked. "Running is a serious business," he said. "You need serious shoes." I looked around the serious store - one poster suggested 'Tips for Triathletes' and another 'Water- and Windproofing Techniques' and I thought, this guy means business. I walked out with Aasics. White. Serious. And expensive.

So I knew my Dad meant well when he warned me against stilettos. My mom added, "Heels are so painful. They're just another torture device meant to distract women from working on what's really wrong with society."
"Right," said Dad, falling over himself to reach the speakerphone in time, "You should always keep your mind on the issues."

Well, by this point I suspected there was more at work than their desire not to pay for my back-realignment surgery.

"Wait," I said. "Don't you all remember when Condoleezza Rice went to inspect troops in Afghanistan? She wore knee-high black boots with stiletto heels. Are you trying to say her mind wasn't on the issues?"

In fact, I know more: when someone asked the Sly Secretary about her footwear choice, Condi smiled and replied, "It was cold out." An evasive tactic worthy of the administration she serves.

My parents, not updated, hemmed and hawed. They could feel - as could I -that their goose was getting cooked. The gig was coming up. By which I mean, I am no longer as compliant as I once was.

"Well, just remember what matters," Dad said, delivering the State of the Union for both of them. And they hung up.

The question: where did sexy go? Clearly, to military training fields in Iraq and Afghanistan. The Oval Office, Stanford University and the Republican National Convention (that last, of course, being a negotiable stop on the road to success).