May 2003 Issue - Essay # 8
One
Girl's Shoe Manifesto
By Farley Walker
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I haven’t bought a pair of shoes in a couple of months. Except for the casual brown sneakers I got on vacation two weeks ago. A week before that, I purchased burgundy Steve Maddens with two straps. And I guess there were also the tall brown boots and little red Mary Janes I acquired right before Christmas. Apparently, the progress I thought had been made was assumed pre-maturely. Truly, I wish it could be said otherwise. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about hanging yet another shoe rack on my wall or how, when I move, there are more boxes of shoes than there are books. One day I
went to a department store with a friend who wanted to buy a particular
pair of clogs. I, too, had a
specific pair in mind, after treating myself on-line shopping the day
before and seeing the most perfect shoes--or the most perfect at that exact
moment. My closet is filled
with shoes that I had to have because they were so perfect, so perfect
in fact that I might have worn them twice. On
this day, though, I was disappointed in my choice as soon as I tried
them on. In any case, I
already wanted some camel colored low-heeled shoes that I could wear
with pants, so I was going to find some and buy them.
Instead, I left the store with a set of dark brown, clunky heels
that would probably only go with skirts.
I also left with a desire for a great pair of red Mary Janes that
were completely unnecessary for a girl with more than three pairs of red
shoes already. Girls will
know that it is a definite splurge to own numerous red shoes, and I have
ones that come in red patent, red satin, sandals, slip-ons, platforms,
and more. (And girls will
also notice this is the same pair I mentioned buying earlier.)
So while I gave in later, months later, I deserve credit for that day. I remember walking out of the store, and saying to my girlfriend, “When I finally have money enough to go see a therapist, there are many issues I will have to address but perhaps the first should be my problem with shoes.” Actually, I could probably afford therapy if I could quit buying shoes. I can’t say no
to them. I gave up smoking
almost nine months ago, with relatively few incidents of cheating, yet I
cannot say no to a non-pervasive substance.
It doesn’t enter my bloodstream, it doesn’t alter my chemical
state, or leave me in such a stupor that nothing matters anyway or
anymore. And yet I need
them, like a drink or a pill. I
crave trying them on, admiring my foot in those half-mirrors, pulling up
the leg of my pants to get a better view of the way my calves look more
sculptured and defined with a good heel. And when I find the right pair,
it's like a rush--a much better one than if I had done a shot or just
completed an aerobics video. There
was one particular day that stands out in my mind--I had gone shopping
by myself, as I prefer. I
can always scope out a store on arrival and know if I’ll find
something or not. I had gone
into my favorite shoe store and made my usual mad dash to aisle 7 ½ or
8. I was overwhelmed on this
specific trip because I felt slightly dizzy from wanting so many shoes.
It was then I realized I was unhealthy as I argued with myself to
leave. I remember thinking
the clerk coming my way had no idea of the demons at work in my head,
and I made a hasty exit. But this episode is one in a thousand just as
perhaps my problem is, too. Maybe
we all have addictions and it is simply a matter of figuring out what
they are and embracing them. Perhaps
the reason I wanted to write this was to explain and excuse.
Here it is, in black and white, for anyone to read: I am more
than a little partial to being known as the girl who always wears great
shoes. I eat it up. It gives
me joy. People in the last place I lived were inclined towards flannel, jeans, and hiking boots, and many told me that they looked forward to seeing what I would be wearing next, especially the shoes. When I was leaving and friends were making goodbye toasts, one said he looked forward to seeing me again--not only to visit but because that much more time would have passed for me to have even more shoes. Even here in the south, where girls love to dress up, I can still value the distinction I feel from people asking me, “Where did you get those shoes?” Once I was
at work and a girl asked me
exactly how many pairs I owned. I
went home that day to count and was slightly discomfited once I reached
sixty, because I hadn’t even delved into the full box on the storage
shelf. At that point, I
began to understand guilt, though not to the point that I was willing to
take action. I’ve
tried to incorporate my shoe addiction into my life in a healthy way
through the method of acceptance, but now I wonder if that’s where my
obsession becomes harmful. I
am not only talking about numbers here, rather, I refer to the pain
issue. “Fashion before
comfort” is often my response when anyone asks if my shoes are hurting
my feet. I have pairs that
pinch my toes, rub the sides, or blister the heels. But if they look
good, I’m going to keep wearing them, because looking good is
sometimes more important than feeling good. Maybe I should be in a twelve-step program, because it doesn’t stop with shoes. Oh, no. Once I decided I liked purses I went from having one to having over ten in a matter of a few months. And most people know that I have an ungodly number of winter coats for someone who lives in the South. Who knows what will come next. Belts? Watches? Hats? Quick, someone start a support group!
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| Author's Biography Farley
Walker is working on her M.A. in poetry at the University of Southern
Mississippi and waits tables on the side. E-mail
Farley at farley322@yahoo.com |
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