Sunday Confession

Forgive me fashion gods, for I have sinned.

I went for a walk this morning in the chill air of election day morning. (That is not the sin.)

Here's what I wore: navy blue jeans, black polar fleece jacket, and size 10 grey New Balance sneakers. The really wide tourist-type for walking.

Trembling as I headed on my trek, I figured that somewhere around rue St. Guillaume the streets would open wide their jaws and haul me to the underworld for such a fashion transgression.

Here's what happened: nothing.

The fashion police didn't stop me for questioning, the little slim ladies walking their Yorkies didn't glare at me, no little kids pointed and said "C'est quoi, maman?" I was a fashion mess from toes to neck. No one cared.

There were mitigating domestic circumstances having to do with laundry and availability of thin sports socks to wear with my acceptable slender black "Bally" sneakers. It wasn't happening, and I had to have that walk. So I just did it. I am so paranoid about making fashion faux pas in Paris that I only dared go out in those hideous but comfortable shoes, that outfit, because I figured it was early enough and not many discerning people would be on the street. This is partially true, I think. Under normal circumstances I could allow myself to wear running shoes like that IF I were in also in a chic spandex get-up heading over to the Champs de Mars or Jardin du Luxembourg in a trot. Spandex was not in the lexicon today.

But just walking in that ensemble, you look as if you are going somewhere, dressed "normally". A clueless American fashion ignoramus. Okay, okay, it is partially true, but my fashion IQ is improving slowly after a year here.

Anyway, I'll repent and atone tomorrow: a whole morning in Ferragamo pumps.