Sometimes a girl needs to feel sexy even if she is just lounging around the house.
About two years ago, I was in such a phase when it dawned on me that, although I considered myself to be quite the bombshell in my relationship, I had a disturbing lack of Marabou in my closet. What is a pin-up girl without her Marabou Mules?
It would be like Bettie Page without her bangs. Or Jayne Mansfield without her sweater. Or even Marilyn Monroe without a red velvet background. It simply would not do.
But where is a self-respecting New Englander to find a pair of marabou mules that would satisfy her inner bombshell but also be practical with her wardrobe, considering the fact that her most risqué sleepwear is made of flannel?
I threw caution—and fashion rules–to the wind. Who is to say I cannot wear a pair of kitten-laden flannel pajamas with pink satin marabou mules? These were not shoes for public consumption anyway. These shoes are meant for the boudoir and so I went online and ordered myself a pair.
They arrived two weeks later and I anxiously tore them open, putting them over my running socks.
No longer was I 2008 Sasha Brown-Worsham, writer, wife, and mom.
Instead, I was Sasha (no last name, of course), a 1950’s bombshell, fixing a martini and waiting for Frank Sinatra to show.
When my husband walked through the door, he was digging the persona, too. For a second, he considered donning a fedora and going all Rat Pack on me.
But that would have taken too much time. Instead, he just fondled the shoes–and me, of course.
Unfortunately, the problems started soon after. They were three inches tall, decidedly less comfortable than my terry cloth house shoes that matched my kitten pajamas and they were also very (very!) loud.
At the top of a stairway in Beverly Hills with a long flowing chiffon nightgown, these shoes may have worked, but in a second floor apartment in Somerville, Massachusetts with angry graduate students living below, the sound of clicking high heels is not a welcome one.
They are not the everyday shoes I hoped they might be. But I will never toss them.
Every few months, they come out of hiding, from the depths of my closet. Their appearances are usually brief, but very important.
When I need to conjure my inner bombshell from beneath the layers of mom and wife and writer, I slip these shoes on my feet, put on my wedding nightgown, spray on some Chanel and pretend that I am lounging like Marilyn.*
*(ed’s note: right now, you can get your MM on for only $18.95. check the link.)