Theatre and performance, I think, lay bare the foundations of what our culture really consists of: people playing roles. The Great Guiding Myth™ of our times is that by acquiring more money, you can take on any role you want to, simply by buying the products associated with that role.

I walk into what I think is probably the only haute couture (not that I’m an expert on these things) shop in Santa Fe. Drawn through the doors by yards of ruby red fabric draped around a sidewalk mannequin just doing her job. And quite well, I must say.

The gown sported by the headless and armless lady has almost exactly the shape, the silhouette, I’ve been craving, especially that breathless crimson swath hanging from the small of the back and sweeping the pavement like waves.

Of desire.

(Oh my goodness, I’ve nearly forgotten myself.)

The exquisite garment is like the one from my wild waking dream that involves learning to ride my Percheron horse Tobias sidesaddle. (When thinking of sidesaddle riding, I am compelled to use the Big Boo’s proper name.) And from the vision--I often entertain during long, bureaucratic meetings of such significance that two score of us must be in attendance so any decision made cannot be traced back to any single cog--where I am driving the glistening black horse in a glistening black cart. Generally with the surf pounding around spinning wheels sparkling in the sunshine.

And I’m wearing something fabulous. I mean. Really. Fabulous.

The proprietor gives me a good once over, and I realize I’m not very impressive looking in my blue jeans and my boots and my tee shirt from Target. She makes her snap decision just as I open my mouth and ask her if she would ever take on the project of designing and sewing a riding habit. I’m a horsewoman, you see, and that red dress out there on the sidewalk is well ... nearly perfect. I run out of breathe when her level gaze lets me know she’s absolutely unimpressed with these credentials, and that’s just before here eyes drop to my shoes. When I moved to Boston, right out of college, and lived in a shabby and wondrous apartment in the Back Bay, only a couple of blocks away from the fashionable Newbury Street, I was told by friends that the shopkeepers there would quickly apprise my ability to buy by what they judged to be the value of my shoes.

My eyes follow hers to the Ariats that weren’t cheap, but have seen better days.

I’ll bet Ms. Haute Couture can’t sit sideways on a cantering horse. Let alone, stand up on one’s back for a good four to six strides and live to tell about it. In fact, she’s probably the clerk here, I console myself after having been more than sufficiently snubbed by what must undoubtedly be the hired help, although I forget to check out her shoes before leaving.

Big snob. I think.

When I do get myself that riding habit one of these days, and, oh yeah, with a hat to boot, with yards of foofy frothy light-as-air stuff to veil the face of the mysterious and provocative creature I surely will become with such an outfit (and Tobias to boot), I won’t be buying it from her.

Although I did ride my bicycle past her shop last week. And I admit, I coasted by, sneaking furtive, longing glances, in what seemed a suitable amount of reverence and awe for such an epic garnet gown.