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FRESH
YARN PRESENTS:
Blahnik's
Bag
by
David Israel
 Manolo
Blahniks did for Carrie Bradshaw what the generic canvas tennis
shoe did for Mr. Rogers: they helped define a personality. That
they cost an average of $600 gave Bradshaw's character certain panache
-- a flair that basically said: I may be an underpaid weekly newspaper
columnist (can't you tell from my apartment, clothes, choice in
restaurants?) but my feet are worth the very best.
The shoes also gave her confidence -- confidence that men found
irresistible (23 men over the course of six seasons, but who's counting).
And perhaps that's why gals covet the shoes so. Maybe slipping into
a pair of $600 shoes gives women that extra little lift, which,
when compared with a $9,000 boob job to achieve the same effect,
suddenly seems cheap.
As a guy, it had been hard for me to relate to the Blahnik phenomenon.
I once dated a girl who owned a couple pairs. But to me, she was
just as attractive in her Manolos as she was in her bejeweled $4
Chinatown slippers.
What made Bradshaw attractive, in my opinion, was anything but her
shoes. Her wit, her ability to turn a phrase, her loyalty to her
friends, her capacity to emote and her generous smile (to say nothing
of her phenomenal knockers) kept me tuning in. I refused to see
how a pair of pumps that cost twice what a "Today's Man"
suit cost (including alterations) made anyone more desirable. That
is, until something happened recently while strolling through Central
Park -- something so singularly powerful that I was converted from
Manolo naysayer to Blahnik poster child all within the space of
a few city blocks.
I had
been shopping for a special gift for my girlfriend -- earrings or
maybe a necklace. It was a Saturday, the first nice weekend of the
year.
The better part of the afternoon slipped away and I had nothing
to show for it except frustration. (Honestly, when it comes to shopping,
I'm about as clueless as Mr. Magoo.) By 4:30 p.m., exhausted and
hungry, I gave up on the search and decided to take advantage of
the weather by picking up a newspaper and heading over to the park.
I walked along, carrying the complete Sunday opus that is The New
York Times before stopping at a concessions stand to buy a Coke
and Italian hoagie.
I was sitting on a bench in the shade of a large Japanese maple,
my nose buried in the Week in Review, when suddenly, out of nowhere,
a couple flew toward me on their rollerblades. Covered head to toe
in thick black protective gear, they looked more like hockey goalies
than rollerbladers -- arms flailing, legs buckling like newborn
ponies. Two things were abundantly clear: This was their first day
on rollerblades (at least it better have been) and I was going to
get nailed.
The girl, who was trying unsuccessfully to stop the guy, spun out
of control, landing hard on her rump before reaching the bench.
I jumped up -- partly to cushion her man's crash, partly to avoid
being sat on. In the end, we all had a good chuckle, but my poor
New York Times was now covered in soda.
I didn't want to invest another $3.50 in a new paper, so I decided
to take this one home to dry out. But I needed something to carry
it in. As good fortune would have it, there was a large shopping
bag in the trash can. As I pulled the bag out, I noticed this was
no ordinary shopping bag. It was very well put together: firm yet
supple and malleable, heavy-duty -- you could haul bricks in it
-- yet simultaneously lightweight with a rich, beautiful beige sheen.
I turned it around to see the brand name:
MANOLO
BLAHNIK
Dumping
the sections I wanted to read into the bag, I continued my way down
through Sheep's Meadow, cutting through the baseball diamonds and
exiting at 7th Avenue. Then I began to walk southeast, toward 57th
and 6th for the subway home. And here's where my entire opinion
of Manolo Blahnik changed:
As I walked, I began to notice women -- gorgeous, hot-bodied women,
checking me out, for perhaps the first time in my life. Some smiled,
others looked at me from the corner of their eyes. One, a leggy
brunette in a polka dotted skirt, even winked. It was as if I were
suddenly Brad Pitt. No, it was as if I were suddenly Brad Pitt,
naked.
I couldn't believe what was happening. Everyone was impressed with
me and my bag. I imagined them thinking: Ahhh, now there's a
guy with class. There's a guy who knows what women want. Or: Manolos
huh? Who's the lucky girl?
I imagined one of them stopping to ask me for a smoke: "Excuse
me, but would you happen to have a cigarette or a free evening next
week?"
Of course, little did they know, the only thing in the bag was an
Arts & Leisure section dripping in Coke.
But so what! Between the azure sky, the gentle breeze and the Manolo
bag slung over my shoulder, I felt like I had power over every woman
within a ten-block radius. My eyes, never considered my best feature,
must have looked radiant in the midday sun. My thinning hair suddenly
felt full and revitalized as I ran my fingers through it.
People were looking at me like I was royalty -- and not just women,
also guys a little light in their canvas tennis shoes. It was outstanding!
Even taxis stopped at red lights to let me cross the street. Who
needed Prozac? Who needed Rogaine? Who needed reservations at Nobu?
As for my girlfriend's gift, not only did she get a new pair of
shoes (I spent the next day in the Blahnik store) but she got a
new man, as well. Such was the effect that bag had on my self-esteem.
In an episode during the third season of Sex and the City,
Carrie is mugged at gunpoint and her Manolos, along with her purse,
are stolen. When Miranda meets her at the detective's office and
brings a pair of running shoes for her, Carrie says: "I can't
wear those with this dress." It was a silly line I didn't appreciate
until the Blahnik bag came into my life. Now I empathize wholeheartedly.
Now I know exactly how she felt. Now, when I go to the grocery store
and the cashier asks, "Paper or plastic?" I always say,
"I've got my own thanks," and head home toting my bananas,
my OJ, my eggs and my mojo all in one bag.
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