It happened to me subliminally when I moved to Miami at 17: I came back a year and a half later thinking nothing of little half-moons peeking out of my shorts and a bikini top and tight jeans was what I considered “dressed up.” My sisters were horrified and my father temporarily lost his faculties of sight. My mother told me she’d buy me anything I wanted from The Gap.

In Massachusetts I was embarrassed to wear something brighter than mauve. In DC I felt ridiculous strolling down the street in black, black, and black (pants, shirt, and shoes). In South Carolina pants made me feel butch. In Ljubljana skirts made me feel childish. In Italy I was always underdressed and felt mismatched. In Austria an untucked shirt felt rebellious and free. In Croatia I did not feel naked when I was topless and would get grumpy if the cafe required me to put one on.

 In Las Vegas I feel unfeminine in my NYC summer uniform of romper and Keds. At night when I am threading my way through the exiting audience after the show I am astonished at the gorgeousness factor among the females. Seldom is there a woman I do not find beautiful, but presentation is another thing. Presentation here in Vegas is on a level I used to think wasn’t worth it but am now reconsidering, against my will, due to sheer volume of stunningly successful evidence.

The abundance of dresses that are tight in the right places and hemmed to the right length is staggering. The range of colors makes some circuses I’ve seen look drab and unimaginative. Certainly there are lots of “fashion don’ts” sprinkled into the herds wandering the casino’s tundra but on average these women look fine. Especially if you’re fond of cleavage.

Standing in front of my own closet I’m not sure I have a single thing that could compete. I have a dress or two that would, with heels, allow me to blend in, but only barely. New York’s elegance level is a good bit more understated than it is out here. Back home I’d be embarrassed to show up to a party in the blue and pink thing I was coveting on that blonde last night. In a bar downtown it would look laborious and loud. Under the lights of a Veags night it looked fanciful and effortless.

It’s on this shifting plane of opinion that the shoes of Christian Louboutin are trying to gain a foothold. When I first saw a pair of Louboutins upon returning to NYC in 2007 I was both awed and sickened. They appeared to me an emblem of refined vulgarity. “Nature, red in tooth and claw” springs instantly to mind whenever I catch a glimpse of those telltale soles tapping around town. I find them equally enticing and repellent, but the price is a beating a I’m not willing to take. I like it rough but I’m not a masochist. $600 for your basic black pump? Sorry, I respect myself a bit more than that.

In NYC I had the firm backing of my peers, broke dancers clinging to artistry’s life-raft and hoping their dignity can swim. We’d rather die than buy those shoes! It was an easy out.

Now that I’ve joined Phantom where we have salaries and benefits and overtime and rehearsal pay and money and free time I am seeing something new tip-toeing through the dressing room door. At least three of the girls have multiple pairs of Louboutins. They wear them with dresses and slacks and jeans. They look casual and fantastic and over the top all at once. 

I hate spending money on stupid things. But beautiful things are not stupid things. Not always.

Today I am wearing a romper and Keds and the thought of putting down $600 for one of anything that isn’t a vehicle or a cure for a deadly disease seems too grotesque to stomach. But someday Vegas might invite me to something for which I have nothing to wear. Tennyson was right, nature does shriek against the creeds.