shoe shopping

Cinderella has the glass slipper, and in these days it is probably recycled. Made from a melted Smirnoff bottle, or a 7-up, good for her. Or, it is made from recycled plastic water bottles, with a sustainable cork lining, and a top of ecologically raised, non-poluting, and naturally dyed cotton woven by a women's cooperative in the dark side of the moon. It is stamped in European sizes, ( 30) and U.S. ( 6) and sold in a high end store which reduces its carbon footprint by recycling the boxes printed in soy ink, and planting a tree each time they sell non-leather. Made in China.

I digress, but that was fun. There sre sooo many choices these days when shopping. I considered once having each student read the countries on the labels of their clothing and put up push pins on a world map where things are made. In military exchanges, the signs used to say Buy American but I don't think that would be possible anymore.

I am fascinated with where things are made. And the designs, and potential. I have shoe lust but my feet say, " Be practical, you are all beat up after years on concrete on your feet, and stilettos don't go through the security anymore."

I would love high shoes, red patent and a slinky dress. And,I want more, the thin Italian sandals with jewels on them that scream Firenza. And high boots, cowboy ones tooled and glistening in rich cinnamon leather, just the ones to go with black jeans. And flats with t-straps for the sundress. And lots and lots of clogs to look cheffy in my new chef coat. And topsiders, saying we are so darn rich we don't need socks as we jump onto our yacht. And converse, maybe in tourquoise just because one time I was a studio art major. And spectators, with tan and white when I feel retro. And hurraches, and espadrilles, and Indian slip ons, and velveteen embroidered slides from Venice.

What is it about shoes? I think it is the desire to do something about feet, when other parts of our body just don't cooperate. Too high, too much bust, a thin waist, freckles, sometimes our clothing just has to fit, to be practical etc, etc. I am contradicting myself, but shoes can work. Even with high arches, impossible toes, and
foot gear that makes it look like medieval torture in my shower, I find shoes that are fun.

One must always have red shoes. I have four pair. Each year I cul, I throw away, and move on. But I always have red shoes. And, I have a pair of silly pointed pink slides with embroidery that I got in Panama and love to take out. I like the contrast with jeans, or crops. And for the sandals I can wear, red toenail polish.

Men just don't have any fun with shoes. The daring may try European sandals, and in Eugene just about every other person is schlepping around in outdoor shoes, or rafters, tevas, something that allows them at a stopwatch minute's notice, to run the 20 K.

I refuse to wear my hiking shoes around town, I look like Minnie Mouse on patrol. No big "trainers" for me, I prefer my summer ones of cross strap with white leather that looks like it was painted by Jackson Pollock's sister. And for fall, same in ochre suede with blue dots. It may be lurching to resort wear though, can the spangled sweats be far behind?

I think not, and have the true work shoes. I really do. I have the chef clogs, and the new German version. Not Doc Martins, but they do in the Kitchen. And I have the school shoes, the date shoes, and the walking the dog shoes from Land's End.

And, I try to wear shoes in the kitchen; I dropped a new tart pan on my foot about 11 pm one night trying to finish a dessert. The blood was the color of the plums, I went pale and had to sit down. Then I put on shoes and made the dessert all over again. Now I am shoeless in the kitchen if I am cooking for someone and hope I look fetchingly casual. It doesn't always work, but worth trying.

No glass slipper, no Prince Charming running after me with his hand out holding the Waterford size 6. Shoes at the door, shoe in, walk in someone's shoes, put yourself in other's shoes, shoe-fly come bother me. It is all fun, and lightly sandaled until the cold of winter and boots become the story. Another day for that.