Oh, short on money,
But long on time,
Slowly strolling in the sweet sunshine,
And I’m running late,
And I don’t need an excuse,
’cause I’m wearing my brand new shoes.
–Paolo Nutini/New Shoes
When I was a little girl, on of my favorite things in the whole world was going to the shoe store. I loved the whole process. The way the salesman fussed over measuring my feet so I felt grown up and important. Looking at all the shoes to find just the right pair. Running through the store in my new PF Flyers to make sure I really could run faster and jump higher. I always wore my new shoes out of the store, carrying the old ones in the shoebox.
It’s a bit of cliche’ to be an adult woman who loves shoes. Normally I don’t particularly like to be conventional, but in this case I don’t mind a bit. There’s something about a pair of shoes that can always cheer me up.
Especially if the shoes are red. I must have 20 or 30 pairs of red shoes. Blame it on Elvis Costello and his red shoe-loving angels.
I do think they keep me skewing more to the amused and less to the disgusted side of life. The shoes, not the angels.
Assuming a certain level of wearability (I am not someone who will wear shoes that hurt my feet) there is a certain magic to a beautiful shoe. The shoe doesn’t have to be fancy. Just beautiful for its purpose. A shoe goes everywhere with you. It doesn’t complain that you have put on weight. It doesn’t bitch because you drank too much at the tailgater. It just makes you look prettier. Keeps your feet warm in the snow. Makes you feel like a badass when you need to. Makes your legs look amazing. Dangles off your toes fetchingly when you’re reclining on a chaise lounge.
Shoes are the ultimate accessory.
They are almost as vital to me as black eyeliner and make me feel every bit as sexy.
I still wear my new shoes out of the store.
Every damn time.