I’m a shoe freak. The only thing Imelda Marcos had over me was more resources, like the treasury of the Philippines. This debilitating disease began in 9th grade. My Mom suggested that if I wanted those adorable spats made of burlap and burgundy patent leather, I would have to get a job. Money has never been a motivator for me…but shoes…oh yeah, I’d get three jobs for the perfect pair of shoes.
The purchase of those spats was like a first kiss. The love affair began. See, my high school girlfriends were the quintessential little 5-7-9’s of the ’70’s. I was not. But my feet, oh my feet were double A Narrow with Quad A Narrow heels. Yes, my feet were skinny!!! I could buy shoes, shoes and more shoes and they would fit. They would flatter. My feet in my shoes were the Twiggy of toes. Sometimes it felt illicit, other times just downright exhilaratingly perfect.
So on my daughter’s wedding day, when the bride presented me with a hat box the size of a turkey platter filled with a magical pair of Christian Louboutin’s, rouged underside and all, I was beyond excited. My other daughter, who inherited the shoe gene, was found in a corner sniffing the Louboutin’s like airplane glue.
But the shoes didn’t fit. Off to Neiman Marcus we journeyed to exchange those black pumps of pleasure for a pair perfect for my pedicure. Alas, Louboutins are not for every foot. My precious feet, who had served me well for so many years as the thinnest most easily fashioned part of my Italian-Slavic heritage, failed me like the ugly step-sisters of Cinderella. I would not be undone.
The salesman, Walter, dressed in a pin-striped suit with perfectly matching lavender tie and pocket square, was very careful to bring me the size I requested. It felt like my banker was kneeling at my feet. I know it was absurd, but the two teenagers next to me with 20 boxes of Louboutins opened around them, made me shove those tight ass shoes onto what were now my apparent barge feet, even harder. It occurred to me that perhaps I needed a larger size. This wasn’t like the mother-of-the-bride dress. I had no problem asking for a bigger pair of shoes. Apparently, this is a refreshing concept to Walter. In this hallowed shoe boutique, a salesman would never suggest to the lady that she may need a (gasp) larger size! The look of relief on Walter’s face when I said perhaps a 9, rather than my usual 8 and a half would do better, was like giving him early parole.
Hmmm. I guess I’m not the only one who likes to think my skinny feet are the most alluring part of me.
We chose a pair, a beautiful pair. But not without suffering. These shoes hurt. The chosen pair hurt less than every other pair. But still. Walter assured me that if I don’t wear them, I can return the shoes 10 years from now.
I called my genetic shoe clone daughter. Her advice was that there are legions of blog posts dedicated to how to tape my toes and wear Louboutins in spite of themselves. I adopted the Louboutins but they may go back to the orphanage.
Today the bride and I went to the SAS shoe outlet. (Senior’s Attire Sucks). Okay, it stands for San Antonio Shoes. And they’re ridiculously comfortable and ugly. My Mom made me take her there last year. She ‘bribed’ me by telling me she would buy me a pair of shoes. Ha! Ugly expensive shoes? Who would wear those? I am not eighty yet. I am still capable of making a fashion statement. And there they were, black patent leather loafers with a red penny holder and red soles. Oh….my…..God…. They were adorable and super comfortable. Well, I”m not 20 anymore either. Yeah, I got those shoes last year. But I didn’t want to fall into the black whole of old lady shoes, did I?
But my Louboutins?!?!?!?
The red patent leather sandals from SAS (Style and Sass…that’s my new name for them) are going to France with me next week. The Louboutins, which say “Paris” right on the inside of the shoe are still waiting to see if they are Orphan Annie or Oliver Twist……to be continued….
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Cathy is the author of Showering with Nana: Confessions of a Serial Caregiver
Unfortunately, bone spurs are keeping me from my beloved maryjane platforms right now, but after I hack them off, my soulmates and I will be back on track. Great post!
I had to explain an Imelda Marcos shoe joke to my younger wife once. What do they teach them in school these days?
Are Neiman and Imelda related to each other?
My feet have suffered most of their lives from being put into shoes. I could never wear heels longer than about 30 minutes without having my feet turn into two massive lumps of pain. For this reason, I never became a compulsive shoe buyer. To say that I hate shopping for shoes is an understatement.
On the other hand, I can’t pass a handbag display. I collect so many of them that, eventually, I have to give 2/3 of them to a local thrift shop or flea market. Fortunately for me, I never have a lot of money, or I’d be after the Guccis and other expensive labels.
It’s an illness. I can’t help it. I’d look for a support group, but I never heard of anything called Purses Anonymous.
Cathy, you know that I say I would sell a kidney on the black market for Louboutins and Jimmy Choo’s shoes!
I notice you didn’t specify that the kidney would be one of YOURS, Deb. Should we be worried?
I definitely my kidney Bill, and a spleen! 😉
I love to buy shoes too Cathy. I love your phrase ‘black pumps of pleasure.’ Hilarious. I can’t wear heels since I broke my foot a few years ago but have learned to embrace adorable and comfortable shoes. Have a blast in Paris!
I miss the days where I could where any shoes. Nothing brings an outfit together like a beautiful pair of shoes.
Thanks, Rena your femme fatale understanding has made my day!
Il faut souffrir pour ses chaussures?
Oui, Monsieur Bill. Ma mère me dit c’est ça!
I did Vegas in not so comfy shoes and the blisters were not a highlight of that trip. Take the comfy shoes and enjoy! So funny!
Oh the comfy shoes won the free trip to Biarritz!
I am reading this while wearing very boring but super comfy shoes. Enjoyed your alternate takes on the meaning of SAS.
Yes at least I’m still sassy!
Those days are long gone. My feet need comfort!
I know, I know but, but… LOUBOUTINS?!??
I’m a big fan of SAS and you’ll enjoy France more without sore feet. No more heels for me!
Yes I’ll love France… But will those chic ones love me!!?!??
I know, Carol, but I’m really struggling with giving up the shoe ghost! Perhaps I should just open a shoe museum!And wear my sassy, comfortable docent shoes!
The great thing about retirement is “no more uncomfortable shoes” . I can no longer wear heels and really, that is the least of my problems. LOL
One word — Crocs. I own several pairs of them, in different colors, and I wear them everywhere. I own one pair of black dress shoes, and I trot them out for job interviews, performances and other places where I have to impress someone.
On the other hand, I had to wear my Crocs when I gave a reading/book signing yesterday. I could only find one dress shoe in my closet! Somehow, the other shoe got buried under things and became invisible. It will take some effort to find it. Crocs don’t go with a black skirt, black tank top and very fancy, flowing blue jacket, but this was in a senior center, so nobody cared.