At Houston’s sumptuous Wortham Theater, I thrilled to Stanton Welch’s amusing Cinderella and Prokofiev’s splendid score. Waiting in line at the rest room provided further entertainment. We ladies-in-waiting politely chatted as we inched forward, though in reality, we scrutinized one another’s clothing, hair style, makeup, shoes and figure. Thus, as the proverbial queue inched into the rest room, we were “on stage” before an attentive audience. Impressive solos ensued as each patron pranced from water closet to wash basin.
Insanely high heels were the main attraction and I admired the flair of head-to-toe ensembles. Had I, at such a tender age, been as chic and confident? And how would I fare against haute couture? Not to worry. I swept from the ladies’ room with shoulders back and tummy tight. My chic was of the traditional sort, and, unlike my younger, well-heeled counterparts, my steps were confident in sensible, no-pain-endured Naturalizer flats.