When I was six, I was obsessed with my babysitter Paula’s style. She always wore her hair in parted, feathered waves courtesy of the Goody candy-colored comb she carried in the back pocket of her cut off, high-waisted jeans. She had every color/flavor Bonne Bell Lip Smackers. Paula was the epitome of 1980 cool.
I was convinced Paula was friends with the whole cast of my fave sitcom Three’s Company, especially the oft-braless, pig-tailed Chrissy, because Paula had the same kind of totally boss Candie’s slides that Chrissy did. When she came over to babysit me, Paula would help me paint my toes with Avon’s “Cherries In The Snow” and talk to me about all the boys who asked her out. I would nod my head and debate their merits with her extensively. Once, she even let me try on her Candie’s (which I coveted openly). I wobbled around my house like Bambi did immediately after being born on my gangly toothpick legs before getting the hang of my first pair of high heels. And while I was sure to have been goofily prancing in a manner that would make RuPaul herself shriek, the very kind Paula assured me I looked “foxy”. It was a major life moment for me.
Cut to 2000, my second year in New York City. Patricia Field shod Carrie Bradshaw in satin short shorts and vintage Candie’s, and suddenly every 20 year old (and many a 40 year old who should have known better) were snatching up the re-iusses Candie’s put out. Even though I was quite literally starving my way through grad school, I managed to weasel a pair for myself by lurking in Filene’s Basement, beating off crafty drag queens for the giant size my clodhoppers required. My Candie's slides were lime green suede, with realistic-looking wood (which was actually slippery plastic). The minute I bought them, I felt a rush of achievement: I had completed my cool quest! I planned to bust out the Candie's to single-handedly bring back my two favorite fashion looks: the aforementioned Chrissy from Three’s Company and Olivia Newton John in Xanadu. I was going to ROCK. THOSE. SHOES.
The truth of the matter is, as you'll see, a little less late 70’s, early 80’s glam.
The Candie’s slides' maiden voyage took place as I headed out on the town for a hot second date. Prior to my rendezvous with a gentleman caller, I wisely met up with friends, drank an entire bottle of champagne and scarfed down Taco Bell. I thought this was totally funny- trashy ‘n’ classy, amirite?!? My date, who waited for my drunk, Mexican Pizza reeking ass alone at a bar for a full hour, didn’t (did I mention he didn’t drink? Oops). Since I was/am totally mature, I refused to apologize, then told him to beat it because he was ruining my night, then casually made out with someone else, and concluded by managing to fall out of/off of the slides at least three times while dancing like an asshole, twisting my ankle on the final dismount and ripping the rubber cap off the heel of one of the shoes. The Candie’s debut ended inauspiciously, with them shoved into the vortex known as “that bag to go to the cobbler”.
And there the shoes sat. They came along for my eventual move from Manhattan to Brooklyn, where they finally made it to that cobbler for a heel cap repair (NOTE: only because I lived next door to a cobbler on Smith Street, as I am supremely lazy). Even after only donning them once in the four years I had now owned them, I was convinced these shoes were going to come in handy to complete one of my many AMAZING disco revival outfits, or offset my eBay collection of E.L.O. T-shirts. Not so much.
Every time I weeded out my closet in the following years, I knew the Candie’s should probably go. Their faded suede was now more of a puke green than a lime one. The fake-wood plastic was grimy with age. But letting go of my sparkly sequined dreams of growing up to be the stone cold disco teen I was cruelly born a generation too late to be, kept getting in the way of my common sense. I refused to ditch my ticket to Foxy-town, puke green or no.
I did, in fact, manage to find a way to wear the shoes one more time, albeit for about 4 minutes…as part of a trailer trash, stripper Mom character I played for a Montreal Comedy Festival audition. Let’s just say neither I, nor the shoes cut the mustard that time around. I’m embarrassed to admit that instead of taking them off and stuffing them into the trash the minute I left the stage, I KEPT THEM. I know, I know. The clearly cursed Candie’s were banished to molder in two more Brooklyn closets over 2 more Brooklyn moves. Last month, my husband and I were cleaning before a party, and one of the puce nightmares tumbled out. I fondly gazed upon the now 11 year old shoe, and even moved to pick it up and put it back when I realized…disco is dead.
Goodbye, my beloved Candie’s lime green slides. You were the primary icon of disco teen sex goddess to me, and I strove to achieve that look & ideal, with your help (and admittedly mixed results). You served me and my love of the music of Chic, S.O.S. Band, and Sylvester oh, so well. Okay, actually you totally shit the bed not ONCE, but TWICE. But I still loved you, even then! Having you in my life after longing over you since I was a scrawny little tomboy made me feel, just for second, like I could have held it down way back in 1980 with my superstar, glam babysitter (and first girl crush) Paula. Now, let's dance the last dance.
