Saturday afternoon finds me in a crush of people at the Brooklyn Museum, the next to last day of an exhibition already extended two weeks by popular demand. Clearly I’m not the only one with a curiosity re: the cultural place/history of high-heeled shoes. Killer Heels: The Art of the High-Heeled Shoe really is a killer of an exhibition—an experience I shared with, yes, the reluctant husband.

It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy an outing with me, especially on a weekend afternoon with no added snow in the forecast. But the thought of traveling an hour and a half for an exhibition on shoes elicits a groan, do I have to? His idea of a nightmare is shoe shopping with me and/or my daughter (mine is going to Home Depot) so an added ounce of persuasion is called for. It’s not about shoes, I tell him. It’s about art. The fact that I find the need to explain myself is precisely the reason he needs to go with me—even if we both know I could more readily cajole a girlfriend or two into joining me. A little enlightenment goes a long way. Besides, a man with as fine-tuned a design sense as his is bound to pick up on the details, the trends, the materials, the workmanship, the suggestiveness, never mind the hint of eroticism or fetishism.

I admit it, I worried he might just turn around, if not explode, when he inadvertently missed the turnoff to the RFK Bridge that cost us a good twenty minutes in traffic, but he took it in stride. Then there was the unanticipated line getting into the museum (so many people clamoring to see the exhibition before it closed), but it moved quickly. I confess, too, that the galleries were a tad too crowded.

In the end he could say he did it for me, and I would have no problem with that. I took as much pleasure in the show, which included some specially commissioned short films, as in his appreciation and commentary, especially in the section focused on architectural references in high heels. And we both learned a great deal. Funny thing how the notion of standing, as in stature, strikes you when you learn that elevated shoes were first worn by actors in Greco-Roman times. Next time you’re in a museum, take note of those sweet, stacked heels worn by upper-class men and women alike in the 1600s, a marker of status. A number of the more fanciful shoes on display may not really be for walking but there’s no arguing what they symbolize. Yes, it was my date who captured the striking play of shadow and light in the photo of Tamar Areshidze’s ‘Walking on Water.’

And let’s not forget something else: this is the same man who took me for a pair of Christian Louboutins on my 65^th birthday.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D8F5vMwMSe4

Speaking of which, in the best of all weather worlds, I might have worn them two weeks earlier when we celebrated thirty years of marriage and Valentine’s Day in one fell swoop. My husband is not an easy person to buy gifts for. Besides, anniversaries are really about shared experiences. All the more reason to be tickled silly to discover, back in November when our anniversary was approaching, that previews for Fish in the Dark would be starting in February.  Oh, inspiration! What a perfect gift for a Larry David fan (whose sense of comedy, not to mention his countenance and initials, could make him a near twin of LD). I scrambled. I bought (face-value, I’m proud to say). And, in the buying, apparently I join legions of Larry David fans in making this Broadway show set records for advance sales.

This time the husband opted not to drive, what with yet another winter weather advisory lurking. There were flurries as we walked across town from Grand Central. I finally got him to a favorite nouvelle Mexican restaurant of mine.  He got to schmooze with Larry David fans sitting in front of us at the show. And even if we agreed that the star himself lacked a little star power when it came to delivering lines, he did write a funny play that took his typical schtick to another level.

All in all, a pretty pretty good night.