Shoes tell a story
Of everyone you meet
What people wear
To hide their feet
Boots to make you sturdy
Sandals to make you free
A holey pair of slip-on shoes
Will do just fine by me
--Tina Kovach (now Henne)
I wrote that stupid little poem in high school. My English teacher thought it was a catchy little ditty and wanted me to expand upon the already quirky rhyme. She even threw in her own take on shoes. While I appreciated the feedback, I refused to alter my then-masterpiece for the following reasons:
- I thought her added lines were dumb
- I was in the thick of the "you're not the boss of me" 15-year old bitch phase and just wasn't having it
- I felt that eight lines was more than enough to express my feelings about shoes
Given the time frame (circa sophomore year) in which this poem was written, the motivation was quite likely that one occasion when I came home from softball practice to discover that my favorite pair of torn up, worn out, stained beyond recognition, canvas, no lace slip on shoes, had been thrown in the trash. In a fit of disgust and under the influence of the I-can't-take-it-anymore poltergeist, my mother had thrown away my favorite pair of shoes.
Now, I don't have many favorites in life. I don't have a favorite song. Not much for picking a favorite color. And aside from chocolate, which in my humble opinion, is really the fifth humor, I don't have a favorite food. But, I do have a favorite sweatshirt, a favorite pillow and at one time, a favorite pair of shoes--until Mother got a hold of them. At first, my reaction was the typical teenage, "You don't understand!" I remember feeling something along the lines of contempt for authoritarian figures. How could my Mom just throw away my favorite shoes like that? She obviously doesn't understand what it is like to be ME! However, considering my disdain for shopping, I now suspect that my disappointment in my shoes getting tossed stemmed from the fact that this meant I would have to go shoe shopping. Oy vey.
In my first ever poorly composed post on this mindless blog, I informed you, dear reader, of my disdain for the shopping and more specifically, the Apple Store. I will now submit to you another reason why shopping is not a necessary evil--it is just plain evil. You will now see the shoe aisle through my eyes and recognize it as the pit of hellfire that it is.
First, though, you must understand my fashion sense--or lack thereof. Here is my philosophy on matching shoes to outfits:
- Black pants = black shoes
- Brown pants = brown shoes of a slightly different tone
- If you don't have brown shoes, then brown pants = black shoes
- Jeans = black or brown shoes
- Gray pants = black shoes
Now imagine that you need a pair of plain, brown, lace-ups. Doesn't matter why you need them. Doesn't matter if you need them for work or casual dress. All you need to know is that you need a f***ing pair of brown, lace-up shoes.
You are standing at the head of the aisle, peering down towards the end, where the brown lace-ups are racked, getting the lay of the land. At first you are taken aback by what lies ahead--a sordid mess of boxes, shoes, tissue paper and those heavy-ass foot measuring contraptions. It appears that Catty and Messy had a cat fight and messy won. And then you see the red dots and you understand--there was a sale today. It all makes sense now.
You take a step, confident that you have mapped out the path of least resistance, when suddenly, the unthinkable happens. Around the far corner shuffles the lazy shopper. The browser. The type that acts like she really isn't interested in buying shoes at that moment, but is sure to snatch up the one pair you want the nanosecond before you reach them.
And then the reserves follow--the family of four, as in c'est la vie Mom and three kids under four. The two oldest fight for control over the one stool that isn't covered in half empty shoe boxes. The youngest is busy building a barricade of boots. Mom is eying up a pair of red F-me pumps and the out-of-place, suede Mary Janes. She's confused about their presence and is wondering if they were placed there by a displeased shopper or if there is a hidden super-sale sticker somewhere on the box.
Claiming what might be your last breath, you venture down the aisle. You trip over that blessed thing-a-ma-jig they use to measure feet. You endure a kick to the knee as you pass Mount Three-Year-Old. You negotiate your way around the boot barricade and two-year-old, sacrificing only your pride. Finally, you reach the brown lace-ups. Convincing yourself that they won't make you look like a prison warden, you search for your size.
Let's see--6--6.5--7--8--8.5. What the? No! Not again! All this time and effort. The struggle. The determination with which you made your way through that war zone of an aisle, leaving it all on the field. All this and for what? For nothing!
Out of 7.5's again.