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I went into Nordstrom the other day to look at shoes. Under the best of conditions, this experience is—to use the British word—fraught. For one thing, most of the shoes they stock are what my mother used to tell me to shun.
“Think about your feet,” she’d say as I longingly eyed shoes with toes that belonged on the top of umbrellas. “You’re going to be very sorry.”
Of course, I didn’t and I am. I have what I insist on calling a genetic defect. I absolutely refuse to call it a bunion. I wear orthotics to balance my foot from tipping inwards and aggravating it.
Last time I bought a pair of shoes, I went to an athletic shop. I really had to have an everyday pair for comfort. In my youth, we used to laugh at descriptions of little old ladies in tennis shoes. These were the ladies who hit politicians on the head with signs.
Although that’s not a bad idea, the idea of being a little old lady in tennis shoes didn’t appeal. I planned on buying a super-duper, bells and whistles, naturally breathing athletic shoe. No tennies for me, thank you very much.
First thing the saleswoman did was tell me I’d lost my arches. I had visions of some thief in the night making off with them. “Your foot has spread because you’ve lost your arches,” she told me.
I looked in horror at my inadequate feet. When I held them out in front of me and pointed my toes I could see the foot I remembered. Double AA, cut for a very high arch. When I stood on them, they turned into the paws of a Great Dane. They splatted beyond even what I could call luau feet from going barefoot in Hawaii. I slunk out of the store with a sensible New Balance shoe cut for comfort and people with fallen arches.
Then I had a moment of mutiny. I went through my shoes at home, trying them on. If they fit, she was a lying traitor to my sex and age. But she was right. Something had happened to my feet that even spraying the shoes with leather relaxer couldn’t solve. Hence my need for new shoes and my visit to the fabulous shoe floor at Nordstrom.
Anyone who hasn’t been to a shoe floor lately probably doesn’t realize that there has been a profound shift in the theory of shoe design. Maybe it’s Sex and the City that did it, but shoes now have four inch heels and prices to match. They are what Sid would call (rhymes with duck)-me pumps. The only experience I’ve ever had with anything like them were the old platform shoes that we fell off and twisted our ankles. I could envision putting on a pair and promptly breaking the heel.
“Do you have anything stylish in soft leather with a middle heel?” I asked the sales person.
She took me to a row of leopard-patterned knee boots and then, seeing my face, to a station with absolutely flat ballerina slippers.
“Nothing in between?” I asked.
She shook her head sadly. “They just don’t sell.”
I surveyed the counters and stands displaying glittering, strappy shoes, with glittering strappy names and prices. I found myself wondering when we elevated our foot ware into symbols of virility and attraction. I suppose shoes have always had this power or there wouldn’t be shoe fetishes. Still, somewhere along the way something happened and I just didn’t notice it. Finally, I resigned myself to trying to spray my favorite Bally shoes again, the ones with the worn leather that I can’t bring myself to part with. Ah, my dears, those were the days.
But then the assistant had a brain storm and took me to a special display by a new designer who is a ballroom dancer. The shoes had a very wide toe box and were so supple the sole bent in half.
I’m still thinking about them. I’d have bought a pair but they look something like the Mary Jane black patent shoes I wore when I took tap dancing. I like the idea, though. I can say that my genetic problem with my feet was caused by all those years of ballroom dancing in those glamorous skimpy outfits.
I wonder if anyone will believe me.
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