To wear or not to wear. This seasons so called ‘fetish’ boots. Is it just down to pins? Calf girth? Or is there an age bracket?
I’ve had this dilemma before with midriffs. In the end I did buy myself a full, mint green mid length skirt. Its nipped waist went well with the boxy cropped black short sleeved top I wore with it, surprisingly turning heads in my small town, as I walked to buy a girlfriend turning 50 lunch. My two exposed ribs felt shy. Suddenly. I went to tug my top down. But I held my composure. Thought Wonderwoman in her spangley togs and crazy hairdo. Carried it off as best I could. Harnessing whatever defiant fuck you girl power I still possess. Part of me oddly flattered. I suppose.
I’m just not ready to cut my hair into a neat lady crew cut and wear slacks and orthotic friendly shoes. Yet it can be hard wearing so called sexy feminine styles with a defiant air. When age starts creeping in.
From behind I could pass as young. Artic blonde. Petite. But turn around I’m definitely middle aged. Even though I hear they’re altering the age bracket for MA to start at 60 now that we’re all living longer. I’m getting on. Thank you.
I can cope with being called a MILF but I try to avoid self-slut-shaming. Mutton dressed as lamb.No. I’m more a scaredy wolf in sheep’s clothing me. It seems the line is very fine and often a little wonky. That of femme fatale. At the end of the day, whatever style and grace you possess is really all in your head.
Currently, we have marketers telling us that this seasons thigh hugging over the knee boots are “for the confident woman who can skilfully blend style and grace, and whose charismatic allure is captivating but never conventional” (Angelo Ruggeri). While on the other had warning us, “The power of the fetish boots wield is frankly, intimidating. They have the ability to stop conversation and make grown men gape.” (Divya Bala).
There I was in the Winsor Smith store in Perth with the H trying to find some brogues wide enough for his Maori feet which could double as paddles, whence upon I spied off yonder in the back corner of the store some soft soft leather black pointy toed stiletto babies and a woman of similar age coveting them also.
‘How do you wear them and not look like a prostitute?’ I asked my fellow female shopper.
‘You’ve got to leave a patch of bare leg.’
Bugger I thought my thighs are not plump but the dermis covering them is more akin to beige crepe from my viewpoint. Above.
‘No leggings either otherwise you look squat,’ she continued.
I’d get frostbite where I live with bare legs bits mid-winter. Contrasting wool tights perhaps.
She was chewing gum. Hard out. I wondered if she’d had a couple of Duromine for breakfast.
‘You wear them with a tiny skirt,’ she alluded. ‘Or a jumper dress,’ she added, asking the shop assistant for her size.
I felt encouraged. The power of two. I held up a pair. The H looked on approvingly. What man wouldn’t? They fitted like a glove. At only $249.50. What was I to do. But own them.
Back at the hotel I immediately googled – what to wear with thigh high boots and not look like a hooker. Gazillions of pages popped up. I wasn’t alone. Everyone over 40 obviously wants to know. Those underage babes can go do what they want. Show flesh. Wear micro minis. Knitted wool rompers even. Go.
The oversized jumper dress ranked highly. And contrasting skinny jeans (I don’t think so). Then blow me down I discovered I could walk my new black shoesies right into the boardroom if I wanted. Hidden discreetly under a demure length dress. Or with an over the knee pencil skirt with side split.
“I prefer the thigh-high to be worn with no visible skin… with a hemline that covers the top of the boot,” said the creative director of Jimmy Choo. Aren’t they the Narnia of the sexy shoe kingdom? I was starting to get mixed messages. Wear the boot. But tame it. Why? Is the whole idea to not be afraid-of-the-boot. To feel confident you haven’t just thrown your doe-ray-me out the window on a silly seasonal whim. Get a bit of mileage. Have fun. Feel uber confident. I mean you’re not exactly purchasing them to pretend you’re Joan of Arc and run like a mighty gladiator about the place. The heels are 9cm for heaven’s sake. Plus your knees are encased. Firmly in pummelled cow.
Why suddenly pretend they aren’t really there at all. “A great boot covers but evokes intrigue. It’s a powerful and modern statement for women.” (Tamara Mellon). An odd sort of feminist mandate. That’s like burn your bra because you’ll feel a whole lot more comfortable doing the vacuuming without one. Not.
Nevertheless, my booties are in their box.
Meanwhile, I’m currently getting my vintage brown suede pinafore dry cleaned. I’ve eyed up my teenage daughter’s baggy black and grey jumpers. I’ve even pulled out another vintage wool dress in a dull dark sage which covers my knees and exposes only my lower arms. I’m ready to thigh high. I know how The H will react.
But at least my new boots and I will walk out of the house.