Walk this way

My first job was with an insurance company in Chicago which had offices in the Bankers Building downtown. I rode the commuter train every day, then hoofed it from the North Western Station, crossing the river on Washington. It was another six or seven blocks from there to the Bankers Building at Clark and Adams.

When the weather started turning colder, I bought myself a new winter coat. It was black-and-red tweed, and it had a big black mouton lamb collar that could lay flat or could be hooked in front and made to stand up, encircling my neck. It was plenty sharp, that coat.

The first morning I wore it to work – collar up, of course, for maximum effect – I strutted along with an extra spring in my step because I knew everybody was looking at me in my new coat with the black mouton lamb collar.

I was flouncing down LaSalle Street in my black plumps with the three-inch heels when I suddenly put my right foot down on something very cold. I looked down and saw that my shoe was missing. I looked behind me, and there was my shoe, standing upright in the middle of the sidewalk as if it was on display. Just how I walked right out of it, I didn't know, but I wasn't thinking about that because what I was thinking was, "Oh, God! Now everybody is looking at me!"

So, I turned back, slipped my foot into the shoe, and kept on walking, almost without breaking stride.

Sometimes couture can get a little too haute.