I used to tell people, "I am a shoe whore". The reality is, I’m in the business of accumulating shoes. I don’t think I have an addiction. Perhaps an undiagnosed case of Hyper Shoe Disorder. I’ll admit I have a stable of shoes, and it’s still not enough. I’m coming out of the closet, along with my shoes. I am a hard core shoe pimp. I was forced to consider this possibility the other day when I opened my shoe closet and a pair of Lucite and rhinestone stilettos fell from the top shelf and bonked me on the head. Yes..... I have a closet designated just for my shoes. Two- 20 compartment bags dangle from the clothing rod and three racks rest underneath. The top shelf is a mountain of rubber, leather, wood and plastic, molded into the shape of shoes. It’s no wonder the Barbarella shoes caused a mild concussion. Time to move into closet number two.
I’m not a fussy or discriminatory shoe pimp either, although I do tend to be drawn to styles that make a statement; the kind that scream, “I am shoe, hear me roar.” My psychedelic, Magical Mystery Tour, lime green and orange espadrilles, were the number one gal in my stable a few summers ago. One winter, my bronzy gold, pointy toe cowboy boots started conversations in places you wouldn’t expect to appreciate the allure of Goldfinger western wear. I name my shoes too. I kind of think of myself as the Mother Theresa of footwear. Give me your poor, your cheap, your 7 inch heels. I’m frequently adoptive mom to last season’s fashion failures and over the top designs which, sadly, find themselves in bargain basements. I give them a home, sweeping them into my shopping bag, and later, sliding them on my loving feet. I just can’t bear to see a pair of shoes neglected. When I spied some mango colored pumps (marked down three times) my right brain cranked out a mental fashion spread using the clothes in my closet; eventually matching those shoes to a little floral skirt with just that shade in one of the flowers. Almost every shoe has such potential. All they need is a great skirt, or dress, coaxing them to release their artistry. I offer my feet as their canvas.
There ain’t no mountain, or shoe high enough to keep me away. My unconditional love is returned a hundred-fold. I’m 5’3”. When I put on my six inch heels, my shoes tell me, “Baby, you’re a super model!” I don’t really need to lose those extra ten pounds. I clearly fall within the appropriate weight range for my height! Like a best friend, my shoes focus on my attributes. They exclaim:
“See how slender your ankles look in these Roman lace-ups? No cankles for you, you old fox.”
“That strappy lime green stiletto sandal really compliments your tiny neon pink toes.”
“Could your thighs look any tauter in these knee high hooker boots?”
They know my love language is affirmations, and provide plenty. Every time I slide a pair on my size six foot, I feel ten feet tall!
My shoes also provide me the opportunity to play many roles, a daily debut. Reading my mind, my puce and violet patent leather stilettos smile and say, “Feeling sassy today you Brazilian Goddess? Wear me.”
My thick-strapped, black, five inch chunky heeled Roman soldier sandals, huskily taunt me with their domineering presence. “Ready to conquer the world today, Wonder Woman?
“So you really think this date is worthy of you Mae West?” questions my black sateen and rhinestone dazzlers. Wink. Wink.
My shoes are a safe outlet to express a minor case of multiple personality disorder.
I have to confess, I’m not a big winter shoe gal. First, I hate the confinement of my feet encased in sheepskin, leather and sensibility. Second, even their names are unattractive. Ugg... Boot...Clog. Ugh! Compare that to the sound of summer shoes. Thong, slingback, kitten heels,peek-a-boo, stilettos.....pumps. Oh, my God. I am a shoe whore. And, a foot doctor’s dream date!