September 25, 2012
I'm just not sure about this whole smoking slipper trend.
(These are from Ralph Lauren. Sort of a “I stole the altar hangings from a church during Lent' look about them but in a nice way. Click image for link)
I actually quite like smoking slippers as a species for private use.
I even have a custom pair with my initials and Latin family motto and everything. Got ‘em in London seven or eight years ago when I first girlishly dabbled in bespoke footwear.
I'd pinched my pennies hard and the brutal exchange rate at the time –2:1 dollars to pounds– pinched them harder so I'd juuuust about managed to afford two pair of whipsnake d'Orsays plus a cheap seat to Equus back when people cared about Daniel Radcliffe's uh, hufflepuff (and, from what I remember of the show, well before he learned the elusive yet powerful manscaping spell.)
The shoemaker was running some promotion where the third pair was 50% off and the smoking slippers were the only kicks I could afford and still pack both of my kidneys on the long flight home (my liver I left somewhere north of Berwick-upon-Tweed.)
It's just…I mean…do they feel a little Let Them Eat Cake right now, given the current extreme levels of social and political divisiveness, in a way that's just slightly different from regular “status' shoes to anyone else?
Like a little too eager to harken back to the good old days of Britain when we imagine everyone acted just like characters from an Oscar Wilde play and everything was great and too, too refined provided you were white, male and had scads of money (you know, as opposed to the times in history where being a rich white guy has been such a disadvantage) It just strikes me as tone deaf.
Is it me? It's probably just me.
It's like the old relative you know and love, the one who slipped you twenties in your birthday card when everyone else gave you two freshly-ironed dollar bills, but is, well, kinda racist.
It's like you've brought your new boyfriend to meet the family for dinner and everything's fine and all of a sudden your beloved great uncle says “You know what I like about Obama?' and you just sit there praying to God harder than you've ever prayed for anything that didn't involve peeing on a stick that the big reveal won't involve the phrase “so well-spoken.'
But of course it does, and it just hangs in the air above the decorative fish platter like this giant awkward thing (not unlike the decorative fish platter itself) until someone changes the subject or you commit ritual suicide with a bread knife
It probably doesn't matter. In a few months cheap and cheerful versions of the traditionally British social signifiers will flood the market and with dilution of design will come dilution of the message, kind of like wearing delicate little slippers once either meant you were posh (in the UK) or quite possibly a prostitute (in Louisiana) I don't know.
Am I overthinking this? Put it in the comments.
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