For me, the old adage about walking a mile in another’s shoes simply falls flat. I would love to walk in your shoes, but I sincerely doubt that they’ll fit. You see, I have abnormally tiny feet, even for someone my size. At a towering five feet tall, my feet measure in at a child’s size 3, or an adult size 5, if you’re lucky enough to find them. I have no problem with all of my dancing shoes, since dance is a sport mostly popular with young girls. I have every dance shoe imaginable; it’s the fancy dress shoes that are the problem.
Years ago – on some dark and stormy night, I’m sure – some demented genius decided that fancy grownup shoes would begin at size 6, relegating me to the ‘Growing Girls’ corner of every shoe department. I would like to meet the person responsible for this outrageous injustice and line their driveway with grape-flavored A.B.C. gum. I’ve grown weary of my selection of non-skid mary janes and Hannah Montana sneakers, and I now demand equal opportunity footwear.
This senseless discrimination must be brought to an end; and quickly, too! I want beautiful evening shoes, not just ballet slippers. I have a dream that one day men, women and children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the size of their pedal extremities, but by the content of their character. I have a dream that one day I will be seduced by a pair of grey suede boots with lovely silver buckles, and that they will be a perfect size 5. They will also be free.
In my utopia, all shoe shopping experiences would be accompanied by a foot rub and a cup of joe. Instead they come with large sizes, even larger pricetags and mini-socks. I’ve never really known what to do with the mini-socks once I’m through trying on shoes that don’t fit. There’s never a wastebasket in the shoe department, and the clerk doesn’t want them back. Instead, you’re forced to carry around this tiny piece of hosiery until you find a trashcan, or shove it in the bottom of your purse, where it will remain for ages.
The one advantage to shoe shopping for wee feet is that there’s no need to ask the clerk if they have my size in stock. Retailers like to put out the littlest shoes so they can fit more of them on those lovely, multi-tiered displays. Oh, the displays! Rows and rows of shining specimens, laid out for hungry eyes to devour. I like to circle my way around the perimeter of the shoe department and slowly work my way inwards to the tall, spiraling displays that reach up towards the heavens. I’m almost certain they’re designed that way to mesmerize the weakest among us, each towering display creating a swirling vortex of wearable art that makes the arches of my feet tingle.
Earlier this year, I was enchanted by a luminous pair of black satin, four-inch spectator pumps. The display was a size 5 1/2, which is a stretch for my little toes. Oh, they were big shoes to fill indeed, but I was ready for the challenge! I tried them on, convinced myself that they were a perfect fit for both my feet and my soul, and paid retail for them, with nary a discount in sight. I bought inserts for the toes and heels, hoping that I could fill in the gaps that remained, and I wore them out that very evening, with the hopes that I would be dancing.
Alas, even with the gelly inserts, they didn’t really fit. Instead of dancing, I spent the evening subtly adjusting my toes inside of my shoes, trying to find something within that they could grab onto for support. I tried sweet talking them, encouraging my feet to flex and expand, bribing them with the promise of a pedicure the next day. I tried a variety of walking styles, from a tight Barbie-style prance to a George Jefferson strut, each one designed to make me feel more comfortable. But none of them worked. The night seemed to drag on for centuries, as I feigned interest in anyone that came to stand near me, just so I could remain in the same spot for the entire evening. By the time I waddled out to my car, my fashionista ego defeated, the cramps in my legs and feet were so severe that I could hardly bring myself to press the gas pedal.
The next day, as promised, I took my feet out for a pedicure. As they rested in the luxury of a warm bubble bath, I reprimanded myself for being so foolish as to think that I could wear big girl shoes. My feet are my living; why on earth would I torture them like that? Putting them in danger could rob me of a paycheck. As I worried, the pedicure technician came over and gently pulled my barking dogs out of the water, dried them off with a heated towel and began the massage. “You have such beautiful tiny feet,” she cooed. Yes, I agreed, they are small. “It isn’t the size that matters,” she said coyly, “it’s what you do with them that counts.”
Now, why did I need a nail technician to tell me that?
