I had barely made it through the door when I was bombarded on all sides with shoe pitches:
“Hey Lady, You like? Me love you long time”
“Girlfriend…..This is your lucky day”
“We’re too good for you, don’t even come over here, we’ll slap you We don’t care how much money you have, we will break. your. ankle if you even try us on.” (reverse shoe psychology. It’s over my head)
“Ooooohhhh hi! HI! Over here! See us! Ohhhh we’re so comfortable you won’t believe it. You can run in us. Didn’t you see the commercial? Try it, you’ll see! ”
And cat calls:
“Well, looky what we got here. Looks like we got ourselves a Lookie-Lou, fellas!”
“Whatchu lookin for, Baby? We got whatchu need, right boys?”
The bored whispers:
“She wouldn’t know an age-appropriate pair of shoes if they stepped on her toes and sang the Star Spangled Banner. Just ignore her girls.”
“She couldn’t walk in us if she tried!”
“ssshhhh. She’s not one of our kind”
“Clearance shopper. Don’t even waste your breath kids. Hey. Purples. Incoming!!”
“OMG, Chicken, do you even look in the mirror before you leave your house?”
“Ha. Good luck with those cankles. I think you’re going to need a bigger shoe!”
And finally, the pity talk:
“Poor dear. She’s let herself go”
“Ohh…she seems nice…we should try and help.”
And amazingly, through it all, the sales clerks remained oblivious. Not one approached. I was left on my own to deal with the onslaught of judgement, harassment, snobbery and pity in this lonely shoe city. I really just needed one good friend. One good pair of black pumps that I could wear for a season; classic, comfortable, not too pricey and wide enough to accommodate the bunions. Was it too much to ask?
I headed for the back of the store to the clearance rack. You never know what you might find in the aisle of misfit shoes. The purples shivered in their boxes, cowering away from the Toes Who Ate Tokyo. The blues wanted nothing to do with me. The Greens refused to yield a shoe in my size. The cacophony grew even louder, I got overwhelmed. I was about to give up and then I heard it.
A quiet, elegant voice from the end of aisle 5 called to me. It said, “You should try me on, Dear. I think we might be a perfect match.” It was a pair of Joan and David black leather kitten heels. They were a classic pair of shoes with a reserved air, and heels that could back a chicken up through a long day of sales calls. And they had a purple dot. 75% off? Oh happy day! But would they fit? They would!
I bought them at once. They thanked me for saving them from the hell of 300 sweaty feet per day trying to force a way inside their roomy toe boxes. I wore them to work the next day, excited to have finally found a pair of moderate height shoes that I could walk in all day. Or at least until 9:30 am.
At 9:30 am, my shoes and my feet started getting snippy with each other:
“You said you were a size 9. I think you lied. You’re a size 8.5, don’t deny.”
“I’m a size 9, you impudent peasants. YOU claimed to be a size 9 when clearly you are a size 9.5! This would never happen in Europe. In Europe, feet know their size!”
“Oh yeah? Well, in Europe, all the shoes have Mad Cow Disease!”
“You feet are such cretins. How did we ever get stuck on you!”
“Oh, well, feel free to leave any time, Queens O’ De Nile”
“Would that we could, but you ignorant feet have swollen so much we can’t escape”
“Hey! Hey, you up there! Call the rescue! We’re going to need the jaws of life to get free of these bitches.”
“I’m not going down alone, feet. I will take you with me.”
And this is why I hate shoes. They all turn on you. Eventually.
|They look trustworthy . So did Ted Bundy.|