A little while ago I packed a pair of four-inch Manolo Blahniks for a good friend's wedding in Greece knowing more or less exactly that I'd wear them for thirty minutes. Which is an objectively silly amount of suitcase to hand over to half an hour. And which I'd do again tomorrow without a second's thought.
You might be familiar with the calculation. How long could I last on pavement, how much longer on a carpeted surfaces, will there be a lot of mingling and will there be grass and so on.
The dress was an ikat-print Oscar de la Renta I'd been sitting on waiting for the most perfect opportunity.
First came the receiving line whether anyone calls it that or not. The stone was still holding the heat of the afternoon and I could feel it coming up through the soles. Four inches changes how you stand, and how you're spoken to, and the whole angle of the evening.
Then cocktails by the pool, where you see everyone you're going to see all night and everyone is still on their best behavior. Everyone poolside still had shoes on.
I saw a woman by the bar in flats who looked like she knew something I didn't. She was the most comfortable person there. I did not want to be her for a second.
Then dinner, on grass. The two or three women who committed spent the night on their toes like they were crossing a river on stones.
Once the seeing was done, I changed at the table. It took about twenty seconds, no longer than checking my phone for messages. Nobody noticed. No trip to the bathroom. No flamingo dance. The Manolos went into the SHOOFIE under my chair and the Orans came out. In my opinion the most perfect sandal, casual when you need them to be, dressy enough in a pinch, oh and flat of course.
So what are the thirty minutes for?
You dress-up for a wedding because it's important. Someone asked you to come and stand in their photographs on their big day. It matters, anyone who tells you it doesn't has never stood outside a wedding in a dress she bought specifically to stand outside a wedding in.
The other reason has nothing to do with anybody but yourself. You're standing there with a drink, you glance down at your own feet, and you feel great about them. "You look fabulous! sexy, honestly, yup." Nobody's looking at you. It doesn't matter that nobody's looking. That one is completely for me.
And the thirty minutes doesn't include getting ready. Mirror selfies, taking twenty versions of more or less the same photograph, trying to get one where dress, shoes, legs, hair, and eyebrows all look right at once. This time isn't included in the 30 minutes though, convenient, because it might be the most fun I have in shoes.
Happy Anniversary Celia + Bernard! xo