To London because of you, part 2

Dear Marc, I wish you could see her. Mom is carrying a small backpack of a size that may hold a banana, a small thermos and a sandwich. She asks me “do I look silly wearing this backpack”? I look at her. Pants too short, sensible footwear, hat with pom pom and miniature backpack. I tell her the truth. “Mom, it really doesn’t matter”. She looks at her reflection in a mirror and laughs. We laugh. Then she starts giving me fashion advice as if we never looked at her look together.

I can understand her. The way I dress is no reflection of my taste. I don’t really look like I do. My true self looks like Claudette Colbert. But if you saw me in the street you probably wouldn’t even see me. My look is comfortable and sensible. But this is just in the meantime, while I plan my true look.

We walk around Selfridge’s. Mom is walking two steps behind me, her little pom pom swaying in air. I touch silk, crepe de chine, velvet, leather. As I caress the most beautiful shirt in the world, Mom says “don’t forget that you have a two-year old.” And as we get closer to the treasury, the shoe department, the reason for this entire trip, nothing can stop her. I see your boots, Marc, they are so beautiful. The heels just the right height, the silhouette is perfect, the leather so soft. They are talking to me, they’re saying “We are the solution, Buy us and everything in your closet will look better. Take us home”. I have trouble hearing them, their important message is drowned by a small woman’s voice. “You can’t walk in them, you’ll ruin your back, why do women wear such boots, is it to look sexy”? To finish off, she says again ” You have a two year old”. She’s putting my daughter up against your boots. Now I want them more than ever. But I can’t buy them with all her logic ringing in my ears.

The joy of shopping is gone. I tell her to shut up. She does. She keeps walking two steps behind me, but now in a sulky way. This is even worse than before. I try to make peace. I say something about a cup of tea. We pass Moschino, where a woman who looks a lot like me is trying on a beautiful dress. It’s too expensive. I wait for my mother to tell her this. But mother cheers her on. “Buy it!” She says, “It looks great on you!”. On the way out of the store, I see a girl wearing a perfect pair of red suede boots. I ask her where she found them, I’m not leaving London bootless. “They’re Marc Jacobs, two seasons ago, you can’t find them anywhere”.

At the airport, going home, I’m desperately looking for footwear. As I hear “Flight 57 for Stockholm boarding in 10 minutes” I grab a pair of Campers. They’re black, sans heel. Pink on the inside. Like me. They’re sensible, like mom. As I pay for them, I think to myself “I bought boots in London.” I already hate them.

Ps. A week after I returned home, there was a shoe sale at a Stockholm store. I bought two pairs of Marc Jacobs boots, 70 % off. I’ve used them twice. The heels are too high, they’re too impractical, I have a two-year old. I love them like crazy.