Snakes. Subtle but scary, like me.
It isn’t girliness that draws me to shoes. I’ve had great shoe successes from the men’s department, though not many due to the conflict between my imp-sized feet and prideful refusal to be relegated to the boys’ department. But I do love shoes. I love them with all my being, just not for the reasons you suspect.
I am not a particularly tall person. I rounded my height up on my driver’s license, lest the “inches” space be blank. My husband has taken to calling me, “Minica,” a repulsive pun on my name and the alleged fact that I am “mini.” If I must get into this, my height is an issue. I don’t go to lunch spots that require me to see over a high counter. I find that demeaning enough to spoil my appetite. I respond, “6 foot 4,” whenever asked, “How tall ARE you?” This is a more polite response than, “Tall enough to kick your ass,” while relaying the same message. I’m nervous on a roller coaster line, not in anticipation of the adrenaline-pumping miracles of physics but out of fear that my own low-grade physicality will humiliate me out of ascending, peaking before the drop. I got a bittersweet discount on laser hair removal on my legs because the technician insensitively pointed out that they “are so short!”
Enter shoes. On the ground, our universal bottom baseline, where we are all equals, where you and I both start and end, I am always bold, and when necessary downright extraordinary. Companions can’t stare at the top of my head when their eyes are drawn down to the point of our shared nadir and I demand respect. They won’t look over me altogether because I’m not standing beneath their nose, I’m sprouting up from tiny cradles of power. I don’t need to wear excessively high heels to raise my voice to your ears, so I don’t. I wear amazing shoes at any height to do that.
I take the charge to have remarkable shoes more seriously than I take matters of personal cleanliness. I invest in my shoes, my soul-defining soles, my wellbeing. Gem heels, spike heels, surprisingly tasteful clear heels. Manolo with feathers, Gucci with tassels, Zanotti with oversized buckles, Dolce & Gabbana with leaves, Chloé with ringlets, Chanel with shine, Louboutin with fur. Platforms, wedges, Velcro, knotted ropes, over-the-knee, around the ankle. Purple, red, green, blue, orange, black, black, black, black, gold trim, silver thread.
It has taken a great deal of time to amass my collection and I do my best to keep them in Twinkle Toes condition. One of my most trusted confidants is my shoe repairman. I see him at least every season, to winterize, spring awaken, etc. We’ve had only one disagreement. I had asked him to freshen a favorite pair, Giuseppe Zanotti hidden platform, dark snakeskin peep-toe. The 3-inch heel has an iridescent bronze foil finish. To camouflage the chips in the heel, he expertly blended in a darker bronze polish, altering the hue, to which I screeched, “THIS IS NOT HOW MR. GIUSEPPE DREAMT THEM,” despite the flawless and frankly beautiful work. It took sometime and healing, but we got passed that unfortunate hiccup in understanding.
The truth is I feel incomplete, vulnerable without the perfect pair for the moment, the right pair to push off into my next step. I once had an inseparable set consisting of three pairs of grey leather shoes, increasing in height. I traveled with them as a unit, as if I had six feet not two. This allowed me to take any outfit through varying heights of formality. I could be ready for anything. When one pair was worn down beyond even the most capable repairman’s ability, I retired all of them. I have no less than six to eight pairs of shoes strewn about my office. Sometimes I wear all six, seven, or eight of them in a single day, rotating to walk to and from the printer. They make me happy, they always fit just right, especially when the work product I’ve printed does not.
My shoes don’t always get me over the counter, beyond the printer. They don’t keep people from poking fun or turning me away because of my vertical ineptitude. Shoes are important because, if people must look down on me, I insist it’s on my terms, to see what I want them to see. Something bold, something different, something valuable. Me.