The shoes

I grew up having enough. I had one parent who took care of me, a reasonable-sized home, a few books, and some toys. At school, I had a couple of friends, and despite my grades not being phenomenal, they were not bad either. I knew how to live with enough, but a tiny part of me dreamed of something else. 

My mother worked in the fast fashion industry. I remember looking at the catalogs for hours, touching the fake cashmere, and looking at the shiny silks. I was allowed to sew dresses for my dolls with fabric scraps, and from time to time, my mother sewed dresses for me as well. As a kid, I loved the fashion industry, the passerelle, the attitude with which the models walked the new trends, and more than anything, I loved the shoes that hit the runways. When the years passed, and I went to university, I did not choose to study anything I loved, but something I thought would make me wealthy enough to enjoy my life later. That's why while studying engineering- the least fashionable career ever- I kept buying fashion magazines and dreaming about how to dress up once I had a powerful job and salary. 

As planned, I spent five years in school and got a job as a mechanical developer right after. Every day, I wore jeans, T-shirts, and a lab coat. Of course, my safety shoes were the cherry on top of such avant-garde attire, the least glamorous accessory ever invented. Still, I never renounced a touch of fashion, and I kept three different colors—blue, black, and brown—in my desk drawer to match my trousers. I fantasized for years about the high heels I would wear once I changed to a more adequate job for my fashion dreams. I pictured the pair that would let the world know that I'd made it: a pair of Manolo's.

When I told my mother I wanted to buy those shoes, she told me I was crazy. After all, they were a little bit less than my monthly salary, and I had nowhere to use them, but I had - once more- a plan. I would only consider myself worthy of such a splurge the day I could buy them and still be able to keep my regular life going. That seemed to calm her down, at least for a while, since I am sure she never thought I would keep my promise to myself. I would not buy just a part of shoes, but the proof of my professional success, independence, and the accomplishment of a dream. Looking back, I might have put too much pressure on that event. 

 Years later, I changed jobs that allowed—and required—better clothing. I met customers, discussed new contracts, led my first project, and was pregnant with my first child. I almost had it all and was determined not to let my dream die; a month before Christmas, I checked the bank account and decided to do it. I did my research and found a website that had a sale on the pair I wanted. They only delivered to the US, but I had friends who could bring my package to Europe in January, so I did not mind the delay and pressed the "continue" button. It was done. I was successful.

I waited for over a month for the package. The day my friend brought it to the office, I opened the box and felt a chill in my spine. Something was not right. There were two pretty shoe bags, a pair of shiny red shoes with rhinestones and the name I'd dreamed about on them... but they were not the real deal. Feeling heartbroken and silly for believing such a good deal, I tried them, and they did not fit. I couldn't even fake it; I couldn't walk on them. There I was, eight months pregnant, trying to walk on ten-centimeter heels that I could not even squeeze in my bloated feet. 

Was it a sign? Was my success as fake as my shiny shoes?

I put the shoes in their bags, the bags on the box, and closed the package. Within the following weeks, I delivered my project, and my daughter was born. 

When I returned to the office after my maternity leave, I thought about trying the shoes but did not dare to. Instead, I focused on the things I had to do, like solving issues no one did during my time out. That felt good, but was quickly clouded when I realized I had lost a shot for promotion because I had been "busy with a baby." I decided to keep on going: I picked up new projects, kept working, and never looked back into that shoe box on the top shelf of my wardrobe—not for many years. I did not need those fake shoes to tell me who I was.

A few years ago, three hiring companies and three children of my own later, I moved to my third house. Surrounded by boxes and hoping my newborn baby would not wake up while unpacking, I found the white shoebox. I took the pretty red shoes out of their bags and stared at them for a while before trying them, and they fit perfectly. I looked at myself in the mirror: old jeans, baggy t-shirt, messed hair, and high heels. I walked into the corridor and into my bedroom, and finally, I sat in my bed, looked at my sleeping baby in his crib, and took the shoes out. I put them in their bags and box and stored them in the walking closet. I did not need them. In fact, I did not even want them, but I accepted them as part of my wardrobe. 

That day, I was on maternity leave from my full-time job. I had three kids, a loving partner, a new house, and a comfortable and sometimes stressful life. I had the life I had worked for. I ran projects that challenged me and a family that kept me on my toes, and those shoes in the box were just a reminder of who I used to be. I thought about that question someone had asked so many years before about when to know we are successful, and I realized it is a very tricky one. As it happens in projects, things change in life. I once wanted my red Manolos to show people I was successful. Today, I am where I want to be, independent of what others might see or think. If that's not a success, I don't know what it is. The shoes are still pretty, but I learned they don't define me.