Give a Girl the Correct Footwear, and She can Conquer the World

Last Tuesday I surveyed the backseat of my car. A 12-pack of diet cherry coke, a couple of empty water bottles, a Bible and several Tupperware containers lay beneath four pairs of shoes. Linen stiletto mules and black, wing-tipped pumps were strewn across the floor, their heels pointed menacingly in the air. Another pair of shoes, flats, peeked out of my attaché. How did it come to this?

I find that my life has come to be defined by the foods that I eat but, more importantly, by the shoes that I wear. Unconvinced? Let’s walk through Tuesday. 6 a.m., red and white Sauconys for running around the park. 8 a.m., chocolate brown, peep-toe stiletto pumps (Parker and Tara—don’t they sound super cute?), a triple threat Power Bar and a Big Gulp diet coke on the way to work. 11:30 a.m., a 100 calorie pack of Ritz Snack Mix and dirty, white canvas Nike slides from my bottom desk drawer for walking with the ladies in the office. 12 p.m., back to the peep-toe pumps and, shortly thereafter, a rosemary chicken Lean Cuisine. 4:45 p.m., camel-colored suede moccasin flats for powerwalking up steps and across quads for my class and a six-inch tuna on wheat from Subway on the way.

And so, really, my new hobby is changing my shoes. Maybe I was inspired (or shamed) by the flats-wearing pedestrians in D.C. (Although, unless it’s flops in the summer, I’m not so inclined to wear actual flats. I’m working toward a compromise. Last week it was Nine West olive green, round-toe low-heeled pumps that I got for $24.98, but saw elsewhere ON SALE for $59.99. Really, you can’t beat it.) Or, maybe all this shuffling is bred out of necessity. Two weeks in a row, I got a little overzealous with a callous shaver and skinned the bottoms of my feet. Any idea how painful it is to walk excessively on raw feet? (You don’t have to raise your hand, but should you be unfortunate/compulsive enough to know this type of pain, try Band-Aid’s cushioned blister bandages. Really, they're remarkable.)

Or maybe— and I’m kind of assuming this is true, all the while hoping it isn’t— I am finally learning what “grown-up shoes” really are. In college, in preparation for an induction ceremony, I took inventory of my closet and saw scores of four-inch platform shoes. It occurred to me that my impending graduation would need to breed some changes in my life. One of them, I felt certain, was that I needed more adult hair. I vowed to cut it. (And, after the unfortunate marital “false start,” as a symbol of my “independence,” I did chop it. But that was several years ago, and here I am, a bona-fide adult, growing it out again.) But I also decided I needed grown-up shoes. And, for the record, my dad told me I was ridiculous, while insisting that it really isn't necessary or possible for form and function to marry. Obviously, I think you know where I stand on this matter.

I bought a pair of square-toed, stacked-heel black dress shoes from Payless. They slid off the back of my heels, so I stuffed the toe with toilet paper. I hadn’t done that since I was six. Dressed for my induction ceremony, I walked through the dining hall to get rid of my tray. On the way, I had to pass a table full of football players eating Sunday dinner. I knew they were watching me as I approached; I assumed it was because I looked so sophisticated. I tried to play it up with nonchalance as I walked by, but my stacked heels skidded on the floor and I fell, tray in hand, to my knees. There I was, directly in front of their table, on my knees, with my tray. I think one of them helped me up. They just stared at me. One said, “Oh my God, are you okay?” I don’t know if I answered him. I yanked my skirt down and walked (more carefully, but still with purpose) to return my tray. On the way back, I leaned into the table, “And thanks for not laughing directly in my face, guys. Really, that is impressive.” And my cheeks were really red.

Anyway, so, the moral of the story is, those were obviously not grown-up shoes. Grown ups do not deliberately laugh in the face of blisters and hammertoes and wear stilettos under any conditions (except for those crazy girls in New York. I could never live there. The implied footwear peer pressure is too much for me). Sometimes, coolness be damned, grown ups suck it up and wear loafers. I’ll have to remember that later today as I walk by the cute little undergrads and try not to feel frumpy.