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The holy grail of shopping for many women- alas, in this habit I am like all others, is the perfect shoe.
The penultimate shoe goal this winter was to replace my perfect tall brown boots which I have worn into oblivion. The rule is that after 2 heel replacements at the repair shop, it’s time to stop patching and time to lay them to rest.
How hard can this endeavor be?
Turns out there were so many variables to consider: first, I demand a "good" dark, even, brown. No weird tans, no yellowish reddish blackish tones, and must be quality leather with that leathery texture & aroma-but not overly textured. Needs enough of a heel to clomp commandingly down hallways as I am wont to do -but not too high or spindly as to render me a useless flower unable to speedwalk, catch a BART, or kick some ass if called upon to do so.
No pointy-toed witch shoes ( a trend that should have died more than 4 yrs. ago). Must be sophisticated enough for the office yet at home with blue jeans. Unacceptable if it exceeds 3 Benjamins in cost (for god’s sake shoes are made to be WORN and I wear my stuff into dust). No feathers, sparkles, bows, etc. Buckles and hardware in moderation only. No loose, baggy leather at the ankle. And (apparently the most difficult challenge of all): must fit over my big ‘ol runner’s calves.
Piece of cake. I work near the Westfield mall-home of the sparkly new Bloomingdale’s, site of daily pickets against Bristol Farms (hence, no gourmet Bristol’s lunches for me…Bristol farms of Pasadena was a fave former haunt-but I for one shall not cross a picket line-after all I am a laborer myself, blue under this white). Yes, Westfield the shopper’s paradise where everyone and their mother seems to have converged for shopping frenzy. Westfield where opening day was a production of red carpets, media passes, horridly ugly Bloomingdale’s giveways, and live basketball players doing their thang in the windows of the Adidas store facing Market St.
One would imagine that among the tens of thousands of shoes in that mall, a simple brown tall boot could be found. But no! This season designers were compelled to obscure the sleek boot lines with furs and velvety bows, cutesy things, & clunky things. I was beginning to feel like Goldilocks. "this one is too big" ,"this is too small", "this one is too hard" "this one is too soft and poofy." I can’t fathom what Bay Area woman has the kind of life that neccesitates either those giant Sasquatch Eskimo boots or allows for those velvety King Louis royal court heels.
Finally, am eager young salesman brings me 2 or 3 contenders. Nice mid-range brown boots. Naturally I wore the brown miniskirt for shopping since this is what I am seeking a match for. Inevitably, my chunky right calf muscle causes a zipper jam. The helpful chap attempts to assist me, but his gentle zip tugs are to no avail. He begins to perspire and look visibly flustered, trying to yank that thing open without looking into my lap despite the fact that he’s crouched on the carpet before me, trying not to touch my leg in any way as he struggles mightily.
Oh my God, I think.
I eye the nearby bank of elevators and think of the mortification factor involved here. I wonder if they’ll have to call firefighters to cut me out of this boot? I hope I am not the only person they’ve ever had to do that with. Will I be charged for ruining their boot with my massive size? Must I be rescued like so in front of all these other shoppers? Am I flashing this poor flustered salesguy as we clash with the boot? Are there people who get off on that sort of thing-and, surely he must know I am not one of them and this is just a horrifying snafu…
Salesguy flees.
Returns with his Pilipina ladyboss and a lovely Latina sales associate. In their expert 4 hands I am freed at last. After all that hubbub I decide to buy the boots…after all, they are truly beautiful. "Just drip some candle wax on the zipper when you get home and that won’t happen anymore", ladyboss promises me.
"Okay, thanks for the tip", I respond, not realizing until much later how impossible it would be to aim hot, dripping, candlewax at the tiny zipper teeth. I’m just so happy to have these great boots & have avoided a scene of utter big calf humiliation.
sigh. 3 months later I am returning the boots at Nordstrom. So sad…though I love these boots and receive compliments everywhere I go with them, even claiming a "walked backward through a doorway double-take" recently…I am just too friggin’ big. Embarrassingly I have had my leg trapped in these books 2 more times at home, which resulted in great tussles and expenditures of energy from my good-humored spouse.
My office spouse, who has also gone out and bought the same lovely boot (but who has normal legs) in black, insists my bulk is not to blame, surely a design flaw of the boot.
"I just love them, they’re exactly what I envisioned," I mourn to a friend.
"But I guess sometimes one has to gratefully accept the comfortable, practical shoe as opposed to the beautiful, sexy, difficult, and intolerable one."
Mi Amigo said that he thought that was a very insightful metaphor for life relationships. Hmmm. I meant it quite literally but upon reflection it surely applies to people as well.
People should write their personals that way:
SWF Seeking Sensible shoes. Pinched and rubbed all the wrong ways by stillettos past. Ready for Merrells/Clarks/Adidas to walk life with…
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