I don’t understand the passion for purses, but the passion for shoes? – I get it.  I used to mash my feet into spiky toes, pound my soles walking on spiky heels.  Three inches was as high as you could go back then, unless you shopped in specialty costume stores. Now heels are up to five inches. I see women in these tottery-high heels everywhere, and my toes hurt.  I see a young woman in platform shoes and fear for her ankles.

High heels screw up your feet, your legs, and your back.  They hurt us and hobble us.  Why do we wear them?  Because our self-images are still shaped by fashion and media. Along with thin and young, we think sexy means that look you get in high heels – long curving calves, buttocks and breasts pushed out. Feminism has only taken us so far, and when we’re on the prowl we’re still willing to suffer to look sexy.

OUCH

I always loved shoes, and have lots of shoe-memories.  As a toddler I had to wear ugly brown oxfords instead of Mary Janes.  In elementary school, I wore saddle shoes, in junior high I wore loafers and flats, and then it was boarding school and back to saddle shoes again. When our dog chewed on Luli’s flats my mother had the cobbler turn them into peep toes. I was jealous; my mother wore open toed pumps and they were very fashionable.We dressed up flats and pumps with clip-on bows and brooches.  I held color chips against my fuschia dance dress so the white satin pumps could be dyed to match. 

When I was fourteen I took the train alone into New York City. I wore slate-gray high heels with pointy toes.  It was my first time navigating the city on my own, and I strutted down Madison Avenue until my heel went into a grating and broke off.  It was white plastic with a spike inside.  I fitted the spike back into the hole, and limped the rest of the way to my appointment.

My first sexy boots were knee-high fake patent leather, and made my feet smell terrible.  I sprinkled talcum powder inside.  When I pulled them off my stockings were covered with powder and I left little white footprints on my first lover's carpet.  The idea that my feet could smell?  Mortifying.

I bought black patent leather sandals with spike heels and an ankle strap.  That was when I first heard “fuck-me shoes,” from a lover who liked fantasy sex, but was otherwise annoying.

RUDE SHOES (KIRIAKI BY NINE WEST)

I was close to forty when comfort trumped style.  After that, it was light weight hiking boots in winter, thick-soled sandals for summer and Naturalizer pumps with one- inch chunky heels in many shades for teaching or dress-up.  I didn’t stop wishing I could wear snazzy shoes, but the pain was persuasive. 
   
A couple of years after I got my new knees, my left arch collapsed.  My ankle was pulled out of alignment, swelled up like a balloon, and left me limping. I tried ice, braces, arch supports, cortisone shots.  The podiatrist finally gave up and sent me to a specialist, whose custom-made orthotic inserts fixed the problem. There’s only one catch – the inserts are very expensive and are made to fit one particular shoe.  So I wear the same shoe style all the time, with fancy dress and jeans. Old lady shoes are acceptable anywhere. They come in black, buff, and white. Until recently I had one worn out, knockabout pair, one kept-clean pair for dress, and one buff pair for variety.                      

I can’t go barefoot anymore – as soon as I get up in the morning I put on my shoes.  I miss my bedroom slippers in the winter, and sandals in the summer.  My feet are imprisoned except when I’m sleeping.  But foot freedom is  a small loss.  Now I can dance again, and even hike up hills.

Still, every time I go to Zappo’s, where I buy my shoes, I linger over the “women’s heels” pages.  One pair promises to “capture your prey with a memorable message of seduction” They even have a brand called Promiscuous (WHAT is the world coming to!)  I yearn a while, and then I order another pair of Brooks Addiction Walkers. 

Then one day as I was whining to Luli about my shoes, she suggested I paint them.  Immediately I googled shoe paint, found a site with instructions, and ordered about $30 worth of supplies – 8 colors, leather cleaner, and an acrylic finish. Iris and Amanda and I had a happy morning painting, and since then Amanda and I have painted my two remaining pairs.  

AMANDA'S CREATIONS

PAINTING SHOES

 
THE FG COLLECTION

I’m amused by how my shoes cheer me up.  Every time I look down and see them peeking from my pants I smile.  It’s not all good.  I don’t have any shoes left for somber or formal occasions, and I know if I buy another black pair, the temptation will be too great. (I’m dying for zebra stripes.)   But dress codes for funerals have seemingly disappeared, and I’ll never be invited to the White House.  I'm glad to have shoes that say, "I am still here.” 

NEXT WEEK: An Infidel in Church: The Church Search, Part II

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