MY VIEW
Shoe shopping is always a nightmare
I hate shoe shopping. Though it’s a commonly held belief that all women lust after the latest Jimmy Choos or Manolo Blahniks, my attitude toward fashion footwear has always teetered between indifference and loathing.
When it comes to discussing shoes, I’ll admit I couldn’t care less. You see, my feet, like the rest of me, are short and wide. Have you ever tried to find adult women’s shoes in a size 4W?
My eyes glaze over whenever my friends start talking about slingbacks, strappy sandals or power pumps. “Did you see those shoes she was wearing?” Because these fashion choices will never be available to me, I suppose I have simply trained myself not to notice them. But how on earth can some women spot a new pair of shoes from 500 yards away? Do they have special X-ray shoe vision glasses?
Curse you Sarah Jessica Parker! We are a nation obsessed with footwear. I think our culture encourages this grand passion for women’s shoes. If our eyes are trained at ground level, how can our vision soar to new heights? It’s a question that has caused me a lot of “sole” searching.
Don’t get me wrong. I’d love to have some dandy duds for my dogs, but I haven’t been able to muster the energy to search the malls and outlet stores for what I know I will never find: the perfect fit.
Ever since I was a schoolgirl trying on penny loafers at Thom McCann’s, shopping for shoes has been a tedious nightmare. If I manage to find a pair small enough, they’re usually too narrow. Little girls’ shoes sometimes work, but butterflies and rhinestones just aren’t my style. I actually considered buying a pair of Beverly Hills 90210 sneakers once.
My quest for adult footwear of Lilliputian proportion has been known to cause unbridled merriment in the shoe department. Once when shopping for something suitably mature to wear to a job interview, I picked up a likely pair and asked if I could see them in my size. I was in the children’s department, naturally.
“Well, now,” said the salesman with an avuncular chuckle, “where is the little whippersnapper?”
I fixed him with a steely glare, drew myself up to my full 4 feet 11 3/4 inches and barked: “I’m the little whippersnapper!” The shoes appeared without further editorial comment. It was humiliating.
To avoid further embarrassment, I began shopping at the local discount shoe-o-rama where I could sneak in and try on a few pairs without anyone making brilliant observations, like “wow, you’ve got really tiny feet!” I’ve also patronized a specialty catalog for small sizes, appropriately named “Cinderella.” Glass slippers are not available, by the way.
I suppose it could be worse. Unlike most people, I welcome the increase in foot size that aging has wrought. I used to wear a size 3. My sisters have an even harder time finding a good fit. They wear a 1 and a 2, respectively. In my family, I’m practically a Sasquatch.
Recently, I discovered a local shop that offers a small but high-quality selection of shoes in weird sizes. At last, I have grown-up shoes! As my foot was being measured for my latest purchase, the saleswoman remarked, “You’re small, but a double-wide.”
Yup, that’s me. A small double-wide. No matter though, since now I’m well shod and satisfied.
But frankly, I’d rather be running around barefoot.
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