Tina Sloan - Changing Shoes: Getting Older—Not Old—with Style, Humor, and Grace

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Table of Contents

In the beginning
Jessica Noyes, Meg Pearson, James Benkard

In the middle
Joe Plummer, Wendy Sherman, Lauren Marino
there would be no book without you all

In the end
Ann Campbell, the editor of all editors,
who made it all happen

And as always, to Steve and Renny,
for beginnings, middles, and ends

CHAPTER ONE

Staying in the Game

It was at age forty-eight that I was struck by the proverbial clap of thunder, the kind that forces you to do a bald-faced reevaluation of your life. It was ten in the morning and I was walking down Forty-fourth Street in Manhattan with my soap opera daughter, Beth Chamberlin, to get a cup of coffee. We were in evening gowns because our last scene had been a gala party where we were murdering someone. (Most likely the someone we were murdering was asking for too much money in his contract.) Oh, Beth, you were so great in that scene! The way you stabbed him thirty-two times, I loved it. Thank heavens you didnt get any blood on my gown! I said, laughing. I was feeling fabulous and beautiful, wearing dripping diamond earrings, Christian Louboutin heels, and an Oscar de la Renta canary yellow gown.

I loved to be spotted outside in my costume, as though my character had suddenly broken through the fourth wall and come to life. Beth and I would waltz outside after our scenes in whatever garb we were wearing, be it bloody medical scrubs, pajamas, or elegant designer gowns, and run and get some fresh air. Even in a city like New York, where people have seen it all, our appearance on the street always elicited a lot of attention.

As a woman and an actress no less, I know when Im being watched. I would feel the covert glances of strangers assessing me, and lets admit it, for any woman, this can be a thrill. But this time, standing there in the coffee shop waiting for my double tall mochaccino to be delivered, I could sense that something was wrong. Looking around the coffee shop, nothing seemed to be out of place... sugars, creamers, straws, napkinseverything was where it was supposed to be... what could be wrong?

Then I saw him. The man with the salt-and-pepper hair in the corner of the coffee shop, perfectly dressed in an Armani blue blazer, yellow Herms tie, and gold cuff links, staring fixedly at Beth. I followed the trajectory of his eyes and there could be no doubt, he was staring at her, the way men used to stare at me. If he had been pointing a pistol at me it would not have been as terrifying. Glancing around, I understood what was making me feel uneasy. NO ONE was looking at me. NO ONE. They were ALL looking at Beth. The handsome man in the corner, the man making our coffee, who was so transfixed he scalded himself with the hot milk, the three girls in line behind us with their yoga mats, even the little red-haired boy and his two friendsobviously playing hookywere watching her. The whole coffee shop was enthralled with Beth. Nobody even glanced at me.

I hated her.

After getting back to my dressing room, I looked in the mirror and was astounded. Howin ONE dayhad I gotten old? And more important, how had I not noticed the wrinkles and soft arms? I was close to fifty, and yes, I had been coloring my hair for years, but somehow, Id always thought that other than that, I was just fine.

For the first time in years, sitting there in front of my dressing room mirror, I thought about Aga Church.

Aga Church had been my muse many years ago. She was a Parisian friend of my parents, with whom I had spent a summer when I was in my twenties. At the time, my mother and I were locked in an epic battle over my future: I wanted to become an actress; she wanted me to find a husband, buy a house, get a golden retriever, and start bringing up children. Like so many well-bred women of her generation, my mother had put her own interests on hold when she married my father, and she was adamant that I forget this silly nonsense about acting and choose a more dignified path. Darling, why would you ever want to be an actress? she asked. Acting is so... dclass. There are practical considerations that a girl your age has to think about. Its time for you to grow up, my dear. In order to escape my mothers clucks of disapproval and constant monitoring eye, I jumped at the chance to travel to Paris.

HowinONE dayhad J gottenold?

I think my parents had hoped that Aga would talk some sense into me. They couldnt have been more mistaken. To me Aga was the epitome of female independence. She looked like she had stepped out of a fashion magazine. Her hair was always perfectly coiffed, her clothes were impeccable, and she was so self-assured, so confident, so alive. For Aga, even spreading jam on a croissant was an act filled with style and flair. She opened my eyes to a world so different from that of my sheltered, suburban upbringing. It was the 1960s and she had invested in a fabulous Parisian nightclub called The Crazy Horse where the most beautiful women I had ever seen dancedand took off their clothes! We were there every night and we were treated like royalty; Aga moved among the crowd as if she was Marie Antoinette herself. She seemed to float through the room, between acts, smoking her ubiquitous French cigarettes, sipping her Dom Perignon, and chatting with her friends. I watched her and studied her every move.

Since we never got up before one oclock, it was late afternoon the day Aga took me to Chanel. She wanted to buy me some new shoes. I will never forget watching her walking through the store, pointing to different pairs of shoes, each lovelier than the last, and saying: These shoes are for simply having funnothing serious, a brief rendezvous. And these are for when you want a man to notice you, but not fall in love with you. And these shoes, Tina, these shoes are for seduction! Agas relationship to shoes was a revelation. In her mind, each experience in a womans life corresponded with a different pair of shoes, and she had seemingly walked in them all.

After a moment Aga turned to me, motioned to the wall of shoes before us, and in her thick French accent said, Now, Tina, you choose. I didnt know what to do. There were so many choices. I walked along the wall taking one shoe and then another in my hand. They were so beautiful and the heels were so high, the soles were smooth and they were so light. I had always wanted to own a pair of expensive high heels. I had sneaked out of the house a few times in a pair of my mothers old spectators that never really fit me. But here was Aga, offering me, for the very first time in my life, my own pair of designer high heels. It didnt take long for me to spot the ones I wanted. The moment I saw them I knew they were The Ones. They were classic and black and they seemed to me like a work of art.

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