Shoes, My Solemate

Much like the proverbial tree falling in the woods with no one around to hear it, I find myself wondering...if my fave department store holds a shoe sale and I'm unable to partake, did I really just lose out on hundreds in savings???  I pity the thought!

In case you know absolutely nothing about me at all, I will sum up my biggest downfall in a word: shoes. I know what you're thinking--all women love shoes, right?  Well, that's a fairly accurate blanket statement; however, I don't know many women who adore shoes to the extreme level that I, myself, do.  Some might say (more specifically, my mother) that my love affair with shoes borders on obsession.  To which I respond, "Po-TAY-to, po-TAH-to."  Call it what you will, but no label will deter me from my goal of accumulating pair after pair of  fabulous footwear to fill the shelves of my "pink room's" closet.  (That's right--my shoes have their very own home in my private, pink-walled, girly room upstairs).  Did you really think Jeremy would allow my strappy Calvin Klein sandals, Betsey Johnson platform wedges and  Guess studded stilettos to displace his raggedy T-shirts and worn-in Levi's, rendering them homeless?  Gasp.

But it's really okay.  I honestly don't mind the final step of getting dressed in the morning, which includes my ascension to the top of the stairs to select the "shoes of the day."  If it means I can have a whole closet dedicated solely to my footwear (pun intended), I'd likely trek across the state of Texas in 102-degree heat.  In all actuality, you should know that more often than not, my shoes determine my outfit.  Most of my wardrobe was acquired to match a pair of fabulous shoes I had already purchased (most likely on impulse).  Call it the "chicken vs. the egg" quandary if you will.  I, however, happen to know that the chicken came first---and so did my shoes.

I'm a firm believer that shoes can totally make the outfit.  I will subject myself to what others deem sheer torture as I stuff my feet into a pair of constrictive sandals that look like a device to force information from of a prisoner of war.  Some even call it sheer "shoe-pidity."  I, however, am willing to suffer the pain for the overall look of the ensemble because I simply don't believe in "sensible shoes."  Honey, we all know that if they don't hurt, they ain't worth wearing!  Repeat after me, "If the shoe hurts, it must be fabulous!"

The other day, my mom went out of her way to clip a newspaper article specifically for me.  The article was written by a podiatrist advising readers against wearing sky-high heels, lest they suffer future foot and back pain and require invasive surgery.  Evidently, the human body was not made to hold its weight on a 4-inch peg nor be forced to walk at an awkward angle.  Um, duh!  I already know this.  Did the article succeed in scaring me into flat shoes--or worse, shoes with a shorter, more sensible heel?  Of course not.  Much like the smoker knows the dangers of the cigarette or the sun worshiper knows the consequences of exposure to ultraviolet rays, the fashionista is acutely aware of the dangers associated with wearing high heels.  The truth is, we're all gonna die of something.  And frankly, I'd rather go looking stylish (instead of with blackened lungs and sunspots all over my face).  So the moral of this story is: there are worse vices to have.

Rather than avoid ridiculously tall and incredibly uncomfortable shoes, I embrace them.  In fact, I like to think of my shoes as my dear friends.  I love them, and in turn, they lift me up and offer me support.  Plus, they make me feel great about myself.  After all, isn't that what friends are for?  Do they hurt me at times?  Sure--but then again, what lifelong friend hasn't done his/her share of hurting us?  We never stop loving them despite their flaws.

So to any gentlemen reading this, please take note......the next time your girlfriend/wife emerges from the bathroom in a pair of absurdly tall high heels, don't you DARE say a word to her about practicality--even though you know at the end of the evening, she'll curse them for the pain they've caused and sweetly ask you for a foot rub.  Grin and bear it--and know she's making an effort to look sexy especially for you.

Also, the next time you shake your head as a woman dangerously teeters on 5-inch stilettos while slowly and carefully crossing an uneven parking lot, please slow down and allow her ample time to pass safely by.  That fall is a long way down.  You can think to yourself, "those high heels are ridiculous" if you want.  But I assure you in the same breath you'll also utter, "Damn, she looks good in those!"

Homemade Huaraches

Have you ever heard of such a thing as homemade huaraches?  As in--huarache sandals.  Well, neither had I until about a week ago.  Apparently, my dad has reached a new level of boredom in his retirement (or as he likes to call it, self-unemployment).

My father is truly one of the most creative and artistic people I have ever known; however, his exotic taste sometimes leads to handcrafted creations that border on ridiculousness.  He has never been one to follow the crowd, and he could care less what people think about him.  He most definitely marches to the beat of his own quirky drummer and has a unique sense of style.  I'll give you an example....

Enter an old pair of penny loafers and an Exacto knife.  Yes, my dad decided that his comfy, worn-in loafers were destined to be re-purposed into a pair of huarache sandals for summer.  Instead of shopping for a pair of men's sandals like a normal person, Dad busted out the Exacto knife and whittled away at the leather until his shoes resembled a loafer skeleton.  I call them "skele-toafers"...and trust me, they are hideous.

While it's one thing to lounge around the house in this monstrosity of a shoe, it's another to wear them out in public.  I was horrified when he showed up at a family barbecue to meet my boyfriend's parents sporting his penny skele-toafers.

As a shoe lover, I sometimes wonder how it's possible I could be a product of a man who makes his own sandals with an Exacto knife. Regardless of my objections, Dad wears those awful, homemade sandals with pride.  He says, "They're the only pair in Bartonville!"  Yes, Dad...and let's hope to God it stays that way.

Did you think I was joking??

Here they are in all their "glory"

  

Red Sole Society

Anyone who has even a remote interest in the fashion industry knows of all the big-name shoe designers including Manolo Blahnik, Jimmy Choo, Stuart Weitzman and the great granddaddy of them all, Christian Louboutin (pronounced LOO-bi-Tawn).

Christian Louboutin has only been in business since the early 1990s, yet his signature red sole has become an iconic symbol recognized and coveted by shoe lovers everywhere.  Pay close attention the next time you see a Hollywood starlet on the big screen.  When she walks away, if you know what to look for, you'll most likely get a glimpse of red tapping against the pavement.  If you listen carefully, you may even hear it whisper, "I'm too good for you."

That's exactly the way I feel whenever I see someone authoritatively strutting by in a pair of Louboutins as though she owns the room--(and if you know how much a typical pair costs, it's a safe bet to say she probably does own the room!)  It's as though that woman is a member of an exclusive, high-society club that is extremely scrutinizing about its members.  I can almost imagine the salesperson who sold them to her sealing the deal with a secret handshake.  I sooooo want to be in that club, yet at the same time, I could never justify dropping a couple months' rent for a pair of shoes.  I would rather have a closet full of reasonably priced shoes than a single pair that costs in the four digits.

Maybe someday if I win the lottery, I'll be able to join the Louboutin club, but in the meantime, I'll just stick with my trusty, favorite brands that won't (entirely) break my bank. Don't get me wrong--I'd absolutely LOVE to own a pair of Louboutins, and I wouldn't even turn up my nose in exclusivity as a member of the club--but I'm not about to sell my soul for the famous red sole.