Shoe Shopper or Predator?

I swoon (yes, I actually swoon) over shoes. It’s bad. According to some very intrepid friends of mine, my eyes glaze over in delight, my breathing becomes quickened, and on some occasions, my skin flushes. One may think I’ve had some sort of sexual encounter the moment my perfectly shod foot hits the shoe salon. Perhaps equating shoes to sex isn’t so far-fetched after all. There’s the thrill of the hunt, the fitting period (to see if things will be kosher between shoe and foot), and most importantly, the final assessment. Can I feel good about this transaction? Will I be able to walk tall or will I crumple because the bunions got the best of me.

There have been many attempts at explaining this phenomena to the people who cannot possibly fathom such a connection (usually they’re men, but I happen to know there are a few women out there who are happy with 2 or 3 pairs). While the thought of such a paltry amount of shoes makes me shudder, I want to make sure I am not coming across as some sort of Imelda Marcos wannabe. Rather, it’s more important to clarify this seemingly insane union between a woman and her footwear.

Everyone knows by now (I hope) what a good feeling it is to get a brand new pair of tennis shoes. Aside from being clean and supportive, they unwittingly offer possibilities to their new owner. For a brief moment we can run a little faster or jump a little higher. These possibilities exist across the whole spectrum of shoe designs. The potential held in my ballet slippers was practically palpable to everyone in a little run down dance shop in Kalamazoo, where pastel pink wasn’t just a color, but a way of life. My first pair of Havaianas flip flops led me to dream about living out my last days on Greek beaches surrounded by sunlight, music, and ex-pats. And, the pure elation derived from the fitting and purchasing of my first pair of Gucci pumps still makes me smile even though it’s been a healthy six years ago.

While I believe promise and possibilities are at the core of the shoe obsession, I also feel that the answer is quite simply that feet don’t change sizes very often. The rest of my body lets me down in the size department. I can’t even rely on my midsection to be the same one day to the next, much less one year to the next. Ah, but even if I’m more bloated than the guy who finished off his fourth plate of Polish buffet, at least I’ve got my trusty pumps, boots, jewel-encrusted sandals to make me feel capable, sophisticated, and less gassy.

So, to all future shoe salespeople (and naysayers) I may encounter I say this: Let me (and others like me) daydream. It’s not just shoe shopping; I’m trying on possibilities and sometimes, when I crave inspiration, all I have to do is look down.