What is it about shoes? Shoes are a little bit like cocaine, I think. Okay, I know nothing about cocaine but from what I've read it seems that one line leads to many, and shoes are the same way for me. That's why I walk through shoe departments much like art galleries - you can look, but don't touch or the guards will come out and drag you away. I love shoes, I admire their beauty and structure. There are shoes that I've seen in Vogue that I still dream about, and pray that one day I'll find them in some unlikely place. I've been known to ogle people's shoes while they kneel at the Communion rail. I'm very picky about what shoes I wear, because shoes are a deeply, deeply personal expression. So for my first Sunday Scribblings, I thought I'd pay homage to the really important shoes of my life.
The pair of perfect brown penny loafers I left in Florence, Italy. Before you judge the loafers, please note I was in the 5th grade, and most of my fashion choices were informed by The Baby-Sitters Club bookcovers. Other important things I have left in hotel rooms: a Birthday Bear Carebear, and my teddy bear Chapman. Lost, all is lost.
My first pair of "high heels". I begged for high heels for a year before I was allowed to have them - I really think it was more of big deal for me to have high heels than pierced ears. They were certainly not anything but rather boring and proper - navy blue, slight heel, but I loved them. And I kept them (as I keep all my shoes, unless I lose them in hotel rooms) for a very long, long time.
My black "sexy" boots. Any woman worth her salt needs a pair of black sexy boots, they are powerful, they give you a fierce walk of purpose and danger. A really good pair says, "Look out, I might eat you alive." The night Husband and I decided that we wanted to begin our relationship all over again, I was wearing these boots. I remember talking and talking, with my feet in his lap, and he reached over and caressed my calf under the boots. Still gives me shivers.
A pair of brown flipflops that I picked up on a shopping trip with girlfriends. They seemed to go with everything, and I wore them until there was a hole in the sole. Another pair of flipflops that have disappeared, but they were embroidered and I called them my "indian princess" sandals.
I just went and stood in my closet, looking at my shoes, trying to think of more stories to tell. Nothing very good came to me and I realized again that many seem to be falling apart. Does anyone else have a problem with the soles falling out of your shoes?
Shoes are the best way to celebrate some sort of achievement, I think. One time, after a successful voice competition where I did rather well, my trophy was a pair of sequined flipflop platforms. I still love those shoes even though I don't wear them, as now they look to me like they belong on a Bourbon Street crossdresser's feet. For the last few birthdays, shoes have been my acknowledgement that no one can give me the gift of perfect shoes but myself. They are beautiful, they are sometimes unneccessary. They are always very, very good.
But the best thing of all? Bare feet.