Because of past experiences, which I shall not describe, I’ve come to hate Valentine’s Day. This year I’ve got a new boyfriend who’s romantic enough to do right by the holiday. Can you suggest red shoes for the day? — Nicole
Manolo says, yes, it is true, Dia de San Valentine is one of the most dangerous days of the entire calendar, when the wild passions that bubble beneath the surface erupt in the
geyser of candy hearts, red roses and dime-store lingerie.
Woe be to the man, says the Manolo, who ventures forth on that day, forward into the fray of love, armed with nothing but the box of Russell Stover caramels and the risque greeting card he has picked up at the Walmart while buying the oil-filter wrench, and signed, in block print, “Love ya.”
Such paltry tokens of ardor are insufficient to the task of soothing the savage breast of the ordinary American woman, who demands the more earnest tokens, such as the romantic dinner at the Red Lobster or the gift certificate, denominated in the high two figures, to the Victoria’s Secret.
And woe to the woman, says the Manolo, who fails to understand that what the ordinary American man most desires on that auspicious day is that the festivities culminate in the most passionate embraces, after which he be allowed to peacefully roll over and subside into blissful slumber.
Look! Here is the Chantel the sexy, hot red shoe from the Pour La Victoire ($175, Zappos.com).