The Big Shoe

I'm trying to put my best foot forward. Or for a nice metaphorical swirl I'm trying to put the best face on my feet. But, they're coming up short. Well, actually they're too long - seven-eighths of an inch too long. I know because I just spent the weekend at the Shoe Convention in Las Vegas. Shoes, shoes everywhere shoes and not one pair I could wear. About a million shoes. All size 6 1/2. That's the official sample size. It comes out to 9 1/8th inches of sole - the perfect size in the shoe biz. My foot is a whopping 10 inches, equal to a size 9 shoe. Not exactly the Godzilla of feet, but for a 5 foot 4-inch gal, I'd be known as "full figured" if I wore my feet on my chest. Which mercifully I don't. But walking around the convention I still felt like I was a self-conscious schoolgirl again. The shoe industry estimates one billion pairs are sold every year. About .000001% of that is my take. On average, women have 20 pairs of shoes lurking in the closet. A quick perusal of my house shows a scattering of about 47 pairs of shoes, mostly flat, mostly black, all very practical. Shoes for walking. It's not like I am some pragmatic mini-Imelda, it's just that no matter how many Snicker's Bars, bowls of Captain Crunch and Rocky Road ice cream I can consume at one sitting, my foot will remain steadfastly an unyielding size nine. Always. This fact has more than once cheered me during retail therapy. Although no one has ever said to me at any point in my life, "nice shoes." For this, I blame my mother.

I spent 12 years of school learning to hide my feet. My mother, certainly with the best of intentions (I know this after years of therapy), insisted I wear orthopedic shoes. Healthy feet are a gift, she'd warn. So, every August we traipsed down to Zelnick's on Austin Street for the butt ugliest shoes ever designed in the universe. How my mother didn't give in to my yearly whining and begging, screaming and protesting for a pair of oh so hip "slip-ons" like all my friends had is a testament to her ability to endure pain. Or the first sign of deafness. Every year Mr. Zelnick would measure my foot, announce in his fake authoritative doctor voice that my feet were perfect for my growth plate and shove them into some arch-enhanced pair of icky brown oxfords with his revolutionary patented metal cookie stabilizer. Then he'd tie them really tight. He was like the Boston Strangler of the shoe biz. Actually he was more like the Grinch of footwear. Nothing fashionable or fun ever darkened the shelves of his store. So I spent my entire public school experience as a contortionist in an attempt to hide my hideous shoes. Finally, it was time to go off the college where most kids look forward to the freedom to experiment with sex and drugs and alcohol. What I couldn't wait for was the freedom to torch those cookie stabilizers and break free of my parental pedilogical bonds by sliding into some attractive footwear. Then, oh the humanity! Birkenstocks became all the rage.

So keeping in mind my traumatic phootwear psychosis I strode through this summer's footwear convention to see what was up for next year. What's up is heel height, and brilliant colors, and stripes. At least that's what's hot at the collections where my girlfriend dragged me. With two floors of the convention center to cover, I laced up a pair of well-worn but comfy shoes. Sensible shoes. Shoes that Janet Reno would be wearing, probably with a cookie stabilizer. Maybe that's why no one at any booth where I stopped took me seriously. They didn't even bother to roll their eyes. But they did focus on my friend who was wearing a very stylish two-inch heeled pair of black slides. While the salespeople were busy ignoring me and my cloddish shoes, they were tripping over themselves for a crack at my friend, who was obligingly gushing over every high-heeled foot-fetish fancier's dream shoe. Her mantra was "These are just so sexy."

My mother must have been channeling through me. I didn't think there was anything sexy about walking like a cripple, sashaying down the street as if broken glass was wedged between each metatarsal. These shoes needed a surgeon generals warning that occupancy by ten toes can cause deformed feet, planters warts, corns and blisters. I thought I heard the soothing tones of the voice-over man from the drug commercials - "These shoes should not be worn by anyone planning to walk more than 5 inches or by women with hammer toes, bunions or falling arches. Some women have reported black lung, wheezing, dizziness (from the heights) and frequency of stumbling." I mumbled something about spending 200-bucks on a pair of arch busting shoes only good for sitting. "Don't be silly, watch!" It was like the scene in Cinderella when the Prince places the glass slipper on her foot and magically the kingdom is hers. She placed her perfectly sized 6 1/2 foot with each toe delicately French manicured into a sexy pair of strappy black sandals with a 3-inch heel. Not only was she walking, she was absolutely gliding across the floor. As were half the men in the convention center behind her. When did toe cleavage become such a turn on? "But I could never buy those for myself," I protested. She slyly turned to the men behind her and whispered to me, "I don't buy 'em for me, I buy 'em for them." And finally, all those years of my mother's practical influence melted away. I was ready to take a giant step. I jammed my 10-inch foot into that 9 1/8th-inch hole. I have to admit my tootsies looked quite fetching and very, very seductive. The pain was - divine. I now believe that walking is highly overrated. Oh, and I'm all ready now for this years chair convention.

by Stephanie Becker, Mass Distractions columnist for BestStuff.com