Topic 13: On Wearing New Shoes

Carol:

These Shoes Were Made For Walking

I guess if there were ever an expert on the topic of wearing new shoes, it would be Imelda Marcos who, when the palace walls came tumbling down, didn’t have time to pack her 2,700 pairs of shoes. Well, maybe she packed her running shoes. Right now, my shoe “collection” fits in one of those cloth things with pockets, that hang over a door, and they represent my evolved fashion rules:

• Comfort over style
• Black is better
• Cheap is even better
• Too much choice is confusing

There are pockets for ten pairs of shoes, and currently seven of those ten pairs are black (my walking shoes are stowed in the closet). Not that I haven’t coveted a stylish pair of shoes in my day.

Most American women of a certain age and middle-class background will tell you that their rite of passage into womanhood was not some mystical, meaningful, spiritual ceremony but a trip to the store (they didn’t even have malls when I was a kid) to buy: the first bra, the first make-up, and….the first pair of high heels. I really had to fight my mother on the shoes because the “All the other girls have them” never worked for anything;. I finally won the battle during 7th grade and proudly wobbled around in my brand new ,1- inch, squash-heeled Capezios. As with my fashion choices (see T#5 on dressing well), my Imelda years escalated from the Capezios to a peak when I was in college. I had the heels, I had the colors, I had the styles, and I had the bunions and blisters to prove it.

My ultimate “new shoes” experience really occurred because of my belief in the late sixties that beneath my Campbell Soup fat-cheeked, freckle-covered, chubby girl exterior was a Bohemian romantic with a touch of mystery. The closest I came to fulfilling this fantasy was the purchase of a pair of espradrilles when I was travelling in France with my boyfriend of that time (who became the husband of this time). Espadrilles were those rope-soled canvas shoes that were ubiquitous and cheap in France at the time. But, they rose to a level of romantic sophistication when worn by Brigitte Bardot or Catherine Deneuve, whom I had actually seen walking down the street in Aix-en-Provence. If shoes make the man, then espradrilles would make me into a tres chic Bohemienne. These espradilles were the perfect color of blue, somewhere between marine and navy. They fit fine, so I slipped them on and headed off for a day of sightseeing with Marc. No busses, no metro, we walked everywhere. When it began to rain, I really wanted to get on a bus, but Nooooooo, we had to walk back to the hotel to save money. By the time I got into the room, I was soaked all the way through and so were the canvas shoes. Shaking with chills, I pulled off the shoes. I looked down, and there they were, two pruned-up blue feet. Dyed the exact color of the espadrilles. Stained the color of the espadrilles.

So much for “La Boheme.”

Megan:
One time I bought a pair of patent leather work shoes that were totally cute and extremely cheap. The first time I wore them to work, I was barely halfway across the parking lot when the pain set in my heels.

I didn’t want to get a blister so I quickly tucked the bottoms of my jeans (it was a Thursday) into the shoes and went through the gate into the prison. The pain only got worse. It takes approximately 7 minutes to get from the gate to the library but it felt like 7 hours. I was trying so hard not to limp; I had tears streaming down my face.

I didn’t stop to actually examine my feet until I reached the library and by that point, my jeans were soaked halfway up the calves with blood. A prison is pretty much the last place you want to have an open wound, except for maybe a cesspit. Luckily the first aid kits are well stocked. I disinfected my heels and wrapped them with gauze and lined the shoes with band-aids. There wasn’t a lot I could do about the jeans, but luckily they were dark enough that they looked like they’d soaked up a puddle instead of half the blood in my body.

Believe it or not, I continued to wear those shoes. (They were cute!) I didn’t stop wearing them until I’d worn holes through the soles, which then detached and flapped as I walked. My library officers (aka fashion police) loved that.