Day 9: There Was an Old Woman Who Loved All Her Shoes

No matter how old I get, and I hope it's old, I refuse to wear sensible shoes. No Aerosoles or Easy Spirits for me. I may not be all that into clothes but I LOVE shoes. I wasn't kidding when I said that I'm a shoe ho. Shoes, like other accessories, make the outfit. Give me my favorite $7 white t-shirt from Target and a pair of blue jeans and I'll show you a killer outfit.

I think my obsession began as a very young child. Check out this photo of 2-1/2 year-old me wearing my mom's spectator pumps, her hat, her purse and her gloves; hats I'm not so into (they don't do much for my hair), but swap out the bonnet for a scarf and it could be me today. I even have the same fat, sturdy legs, although they're decidedly less cute now...

The first shoes I remember owning were clodhoppers: brown leather, lace-up, practical shoes. Hideously ugly. I despised them. Whenever I had a new pair, my brother D and sister A would peek under the dinner table and snicker at my misery as the tears rolled down my cheeks. My mother's choice of sneakers for me was no better: canvas Keds with a rubber toe. They were for babies! Years later, they were among the first shoes I bought for my own children -- it really doesn't get any cuter than a baby in red, rubber-toed Keds -- but at least I'd never dream of putting them in clodhoppers.

I think I was the last girl in third grade to suffer the indignity of wearing red rubber boots over her shoes when it rained or snowed. My mom finally caved and bought me the kind of boots everyone else was sporting: brown rubber pull ons lined with fake fur that I wore without shoes. I felt like a princess! I imagine that's how H felt when I finally gave in and bought her Uggs. I do remember what it's like to want to look just like everyone else, to not want to stand out in a crowd.

In sixth grade I got my first in a long line of clogs. They were navy blue suede and laced up the front with blue and white striped laces, just like sneakers. I had never owned anything so cool (remember, me of the danskins and desert boots) and I was absolutely on top of the world, clipclopping around in them day and night. I wore clogs almost exclusively for the next ten years until I just couldn't find them anymore. They'd gone out of fashion. Then, on a trip to Seattle with my mom in 1989 I stumbled upon a shoestore selling a few different styles and I promptly bought a pair of brown leather ones (my adult version of clodhoppers?). I returned home and proceeded to clomp across the Columbia campus -- you could hear me coming when I was still blocks away -- and the students stared in open disbelief, almost as mockingly as the mean girls you're about to hear about. Within a year, however, everyone was wearing clogs again. I'm telling you, I really think I'm responsible for the resurgence of those loud, wooden shoes. Someday there'll be a Wikipedia article about it, you just watch.

I'm pretty sure my mom tried to teach me a lesson in ninth grade, either that or her taste was as appalling as mine. I fell in love with a pair of chunky heeled sandals I saw in the window of a shoe store in town. I coveted those honey colored, slingback beauties with a bunch of red cherries etched into the tops. To my astonishment, after one relatively brief assault on her, my mom bought them for me. I wore them proudly to school the next day, feeling oh so fashionable and hip, but the mean girls' guffaws and finger pointing when I went up to the board to conjugate some French verb or other (could it have been hate or despise or detest?) proved too much. The woeful sandals never came out of my closet again (tres laid); to my mom's credit, she never inquired about them.

I have lots of shoes in my closet now that I adore. I've become more discriminating about my shoes, plus my mother doesn't buy them for me anymore. Over the years I've had many pairs that I love, including my running shoes (I wouldn't go so far as to call them sensible) and a pair of cheetah print stilettos, the heels of which are covered in red patent leather. I still own and wear variations on the clog theme. I wear black leather boots that it takes two people to get off my foot (no shoes underneath those babies) and light brown cowboy boots. David has a bad foot and his choice of footwear is severely limited; I have enough for the both of us. In a moment of extreme honesty, daughter A asked if she could have all my shoes and purses when I die. Well okay, but I want to be buried in my favorite new pair, which I haven't worn yet. Perhaps on my 50th birthday, with a white Target t-shirt and jeans...