I was born with eleven toes, and a Russian ballet teacher put me on pointe at five. I have feet that hurt me and alarm strangers. I do not wear thong sandals out of compassion for others. Ovid, in Ars Amatoria, counseled women with ugly feet to wear small, attractive slippers. In the Museo Montemartini in Rome there are several statues wearing these soft slippers. You wonder whether they posed in winter or simply had ugly feet. Like many people who were once on pointe, I have something called Morton’s Neuroma — essentially a small, red-hot dagger inserted upwards into the ball of the foot by miniature but highly trained torturers, who get to work after you have walked in high heels for exactly twelve minutes on tarmac, ten on parquet, six on marble, and five seconds on cobblestones. The dagger springs to life inside Manolos and Chanels, sneakers and hiking boots, espadrilles, wedgies, sandals — everything except a few rare pairs of Christian Louboutins, ballet flats from Repetto, lace-up cowboy boots, and Uggs. Ballet flats are fast going out of fashion, lace-up cowboy boots are hokey, and Uggs are anathema to the fashion world.

I love dancing, but the first thing I look for is a man who will massage my feet once I’ve gone a few rounds on the dance floor. I can tell you who knows his way around a bunion and who is very sexy on the feet and who is very patient. Once, at the Carlyle bar with Julia Reed after a dinner party, I handed my two feet to a Republican she knew; he massaged them so well that I assured him he could get a really good practice going once he left George Bush.

My biggest problems when I was the editor of French Vogue were my two feet. I used to store the high heels in boxes according to pain level — one dot for okay, two for “be careful,” three for no walking at all. Parties were hell, particularly when they were held on the unforgiving floors of museums. Evenings ended prematurely, in tears, only because of the shoes. I had an electric foot massaging machine under my desk at French Vogue, which was about as chic as having a washing machine under there. Certain photographers wouldn’t speak to me because of my feet, or rather, my shoes. But since I have stopped trying to get fashion photographers to speak to me, my feet have been happy for the first time in their lives. I wear my little shoes that don’t hurt, I am barefoot inside the reviled Uggs, I walk distances that I never imagined. Here’s what I have learned about shoes: they hurt less if you wear them without tights, stockings, or socks. This is a good reason to wear trousers most of the time. And when you are going to take a plane, wear socks. God knows what you can catch on the floor of the terminal, or on the plane.

But recently, a friend wanted me to meet a man, so she invited me to spend a few days on her husband’s yacht. I primped and prepared and bought nice fabrics to drape around me in a style Ovid would approve of, and brought seven pairs of delicate slippers that would mask the feet. Everything was in place. We climbed the wooden steps to the boat. To my horror I saw, right in front of me, a canvas bin full of shoes. I looked at her feet , and her husband’s feet. Good looking feet, quite naked. I stepped on board. There was a moment when I could have been a beauty, but I respected the protocol, and I removed my shoes. Barefoot, I was undone.

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