The Island Shoe Girl's Blog

Where shoes meet sand…

Damaged Soles & Souls July 26, 2009

Every shoe deserves a good home and so does every human.  Photo by Jean Thornton.

Every shoe deserves a good home and so does every human. Photo by Jean Thornton.

My love of shoes is generally one of the first things that I always discuss when talking with friends and those I meet, while my career choice to help the homeless is not always an easy topic to discuss with others.  Both shoes and helping the homeless are true loves and passions of mine, and I refuse to sacrifice either.  They are both topics for articles that I often receive in emails.  The connection between these two article topics may appear to be only that they share my inbox, but I have discovered that often the base of either article comes down to soul… or soles.  

I recently saw an article about the sudden increase in demand for cobblers who can save the lost soles of shoes and heels for their tired, budget-strapped owners who are pounding the pavement all the harder these days.  Across the U.S. many are asking these fading ‘heroes of heels’ to try revive weary shoes for one more chance at life.  Shoes that would have once been tossed into the trash by their high fashion and often frivolous owners in the past are now being asked to carry the load a little farther than before.  Businesswomen and men seek to stretch their Prada shoes another season or two rather than continuously up-grading to this season’s must-have sharp steps. 

At the same time the re-heeled are getting publicity, another form of damaged souls are also in the news.   The recession has hit some harder than just their footwear; it has hit their very being in life.  Tent Cities, once thought long-forgotten remnants of the Great Depression, and are now sprouting in many communities across our struggling country.  Shocking and alarming images of these make-shift villages appear on our television screens to remind those of us still in our comfortable homes that the effects of the recession are worse than cutting back on eating out or shopping.  For some, the “effects” are losing their home, their belongings, and their own self worth.  While the shocking and sad story may fall under different headlines or feature different parts of our country, the images shared in all of them are the same—these are our other damaged souls. 

As a Case Manager at a transitional homeless shelter in Key West, Florida, I am sad to say that while tent cities have found a reappearance in the media, they have been alive and well in our county, but far more hidden from our mainstream views.  I have walked through them.  I have sat with their occupants and shared coffee and conversation with them.  Although I may still go home to my apartment at the end of our talk —my life is anyways changed by what these worn and ragged souls have offered me.   They have offered me a chance put aside the judgments that often prevent us from seeing ourselves in others, especially when those others live a life much different and frightening than ours.   Can we, who have never slept on the streets or called ourselves homeless, truly understand the suffering of those souls?  More challenging yet, can we drop the stereotypes that allow us to separate ‘them’ from ‘us’ and see what could be our reality?

I go back to those damaged shoe soles now getting so much needed TLC in closets around the U.S. and wonder if they are much different than the human souls at the shelters and on the streets.  Both types—whether soles or souls—can hardly expect to survive this world without some form of damage.  Show me the unscratched shoe sole and you will show me one that has never left its box.  Show me a perfect human soul and you will show me a person who has not walked the journey of life.  Either one will surely have been worn or tired from the roads or paths it has been asked to walk; either one will have carried a heavy load of life’s adventures and misfortunes.  So why should one sole deserve repair over another soul?

I encourage you to take a look in your closet at some of those long lost soles you have all but forgotten and thrown away.  Perhaps it is time to think about investing in a second chance for this sole at your local cobbler.  And when you have found the ability to believe that every sole deserves a second chance, perhaps that same thought can be applied to the human souls who could use just as much love and care through our soup lines, food pantries, shelters, and in so many other ways.  I assure you these souls are also just as worthy of another chance at living before being cast aside. 

As I have learned from the many wonderful faces and the stories behind them, it is truly but for the grace of God that this soul goes in soles that take her home.

To help the homeless in your community contact your local soup kitchens, food pantries, and shelters to see what are the areas of most critical need.  Write your representatives about continued support for programs that help those recovering from homelessness.  To learn more about the work of the Florida Keys Outreach Coalition for Homeless go to www.fkoc.org.   

 

Shoe Panic Attacks July 19, 2009

Thanks for the soothing soles of Betsy Johnson!  These amazing heels will relax any freaked out shoe girl! Photo by Jean Thornton.

Thanks for the soothing soles of Betsy Johnson! These amazing heels will relax any freaked out shoe girl! Photo by Jean Thornton.

In a rush to get to a Key West casual work meeting, I am in high alarm as I try to pull together an outfit to fit the occasion while not screaming ‘hussy’.  While an appropriate top and skirt had been found, I am frantic as scan my shoe closet for the third time.  On my cell phone a friend tries to ask me for insight about an upcoming event.  Despite my interest in our conversation, I am lost and stammering over my own thoughts and words.  Finally, I tell her I have to get off because I am having a shoe issue and we will have to pick this up later. 

I throw myself onto the floor and pull out my under bed back-up shoe storage.  With twenty-four additional pairs at my whim I still cannot find the pair that I feel completes my look.  My shoe closet offers one hundred pairs lined on shelves, and all of these pairs are perfectly displayed supposedly to make shoe selection easy.  Yet, my heart is racing as I search for the perfect shoe response to this fashion question…but no answer comes!  As a cold sweat collects on my forehead I bite my lip, I have 110 pairs of shoes so even I can recognize the ridiculousness’ of my dilemma. There is a tingling in my fingers; generally when it comes to shoes my toes do the tingling.

The next thing I know I am laying on the bed; my left foot is in a gold Michael Kors’ pump, my right foot is in a Marc Jacobs’ slide.  In one hand I clutch a wedge while I stare catatonically at the ceiling fan.  It is not until my dog starts to lick my face that I return to reality again.  I am now mere minutes from my meeting time, so I grab a pair of sling back platforms and hit the road.  My choice, while perfectly acceptable, did not make me comfortable with my final decision, and my anxiety remained even after I was complimented on the fabulous heels. 

As I start to relax later that night, I wonder what caused my inability to pick a pair of shoes.  As someone with close to 125 pairs of shoes at my beck-and-call, I should not fall into a full-on shoe panic attack when planning a simple outfit for an everyday event.  It was not that I did not have shoes to complement my style for the night, or that I did not know which shoes would look good.  My shoe panic attack was induced by what causes so many panic attacks of any kind; not a fear of the unknown, but a fear of the known becoming lost. 

Anyone who has studied for an exam only to completely go blank when handed the test understands this sensation.  Suddenly every vocabulary term, every theory, every name goes out of your mind.  You can feel the tears develop in the back of your eyes as the knot in your throat begins to form.  The frustration is knowing that you have the information needed, but being unable to apply what is in your brain.  Everything learned is stranded on a deserted island in that mind. 

And that fear of never getting to the island essentially makes us question: Who will become if we cannot be who know we are?  What if the masterful artist can no longer connect to his canvas, the doctor can no longer diagnosis, and the writer can no longer fill the page?  What if who we are could truly be gone forever?  And in that thought is where our panic is born, the actuality of the situation or not, the fear is real. 

If I am not the Island Shoe Girl, who and what am I?  The challenge is to answer this question not by running screaming into traffic wearing mismatched heels.  The answer is to look at the other parts of my life that perhaps define me in ways unknown to others and me.  Maybe I could be the girl that pairs the perfect handbag to the perfect skirt?  Would being the woman with the incredible costume jewelry be as rewarding for a shoe girl in recovery?

Back to my near-death shoe crisis, I recognize that not trusting myself almost led to my wearing pirate rain boots to a beachside bar.  I have to accept my own judgment before that of others and remember that my shoe style sense has made me the shoe girl I am today.   I cannot allow shoe doubt or shoe shame to destroy who I am.  While my shoe panic attack may not mean I give up my love of shoes for the fear that I will chose the wrong pair, it does remind me that at times I have to roll with the punches of life… 

Wait a minute, roll…roller skates… that would totally go with this outfit!

 

Always a Bridesmaid…Thank God! July 12, 2009

There are phone calls and emails that you dread to receive.  More frightening than opening an email with a spam attachment is getting an email from a friend with a serious boyfriend and the subject line reads “big news!!!!”  One single girl’s big news is another girl’s dread.  No, it is not the prospect of being alone, finding a wedding date, or the embarrassing age-old method of humiliation—the bouquet toss—that causes cold sweats and fear; it is the bridesmaid role that causes dismay.  Shortly after our initial joy for our friend’s happiness comes our despair that we are on the cusp of bridesmaid-ism.  

For the most part, the actual thought behind the bridesmaid role is one of respect; the original notion is that you are standing up for your friend and the love of her life.  It is an honor and I say that with complete sincerity.  The selection of the bridal party on both the bride and groom’s part should be done with the thought that reflects this honor and less with the thought of how this group will look in a silver framed photograph for generations to come.  More than likely this photograph will be replaced by pictures of other events in the couple’s life such as children. Years later, looking back at old family photos, the bridal party never looks that happy.

Even the most thoughtful bride going through the process of selecting her closest friends will eventually forget that she chose these women because they are the girls who shared their chocolate milk in grade school, were her bunk mate at summer camp, cried with her when a homecoming date kissed another girl, and will still stay up all night talking about boys in person or via cell phone.  No, all those moments of growth and sacrifice fly out of her pretty little wedding-infested mind.  As her brain oozes out her ear and is replaced with wedding jargon and babble, she will forget all that her friends have done for her and only remember her color choices despite that fact that NO ONE looks good in baby pink. 

Yes, forget the promise she made on Margarita Monday at Chili’s years ago that when she got married and I quote, “I am totally letting my bridesmaids wear whatever they want as long as you are sexy as hell!” Moments later, she puked in the parking lot and—like a good friend—you held her hair.  And like a good friend you will not bring up that promise despite the layers of tulle and taffeta that will soon answer the age-old question, “How big can a bow make your butt look?”  Your friend has been replaced… mourn her loss briefly and hope to meet her on the other side.  Just know that your once stylish, “I only wear Jimmy Choos” friend will have you dying shoes to match that color which is not exactly vomit, but it’s definitely the first thought you had.

For every bride who has asked me to stand up and support her commitment to another, I have gladly zipped into a stiff dress and even worn panty hose.  I have stood in un-air-conditioned churches in August for full Catholic ceremonies.  I have crawled up inside of wedding dresses to help hook and secure trains.  I have balanced up-dos and painted my nails to match (exactly) five other girls’ nails.  I have toasted on the spur of the moment, done the hokey pokey (isn’t that what this day is all about?), danced with drunken groomsmen and been the drunken bridesmaid.  I have barely made it onto my flight home, still tipsy from the reception. 

Why?  Because I am a bridesmaid and that chick in the white dress is my friend.  She helped me open my locker combination in the seventh grade, shared my bunk at summer camp, and always was there for a 3:00 a.m. phone call whether I was falling in or out of love.  And someday I hope my friend will come back to me; sometime on her flight to her honeymoon she will snap out of it, bolt upright spilling her airline peanuts and shout, “I promised her a sexy black dress and delivered a petticoat… damn near hoop skirt!”  The first call or email she makes will be to me with thanks for being the friend who can see through her bridal trance to the ‘real’ person she is.  Or at least that is what happens in our perfect world, more than likely she will not—but you still forgive her all the same. 

At the end of the wedding rush, when the last bridal demand is made, we look at our friend walking down the aisle and see not a crazed maniac who moments ago almost made a florist eat a slightly off-color rose.  Instead you will see a woman entering one of the most important agreements of her life.   You will see the moment that all those high school dances, broken hearts, and first date recaps were leading to.  You will smile, you will cry, you will think she never looked lovelier.  In that moment you will remember the honor of being a bridesmaid. 

The dress may remain in your closet for decades as part of your bridesmaid museum; the shoes will certainly never be worn again; and in truth the groom may be replaced before you toss either.   But your bride and you can rest assured that whether the future means babies, first homes, or second chances you will be there for each other…even if that means wearing a second bridesmaid dress for her.  It’s just what you do for the greatest friend in the world.  

The Island Shoe Girl and her brother Dan share a dance at his wedding this weekend, Congrats Dan and Erin are finding each other and a wonderful wedding.

The Island Shoe Girl and her brother Dan share a dance at his wedding this weekend, Congrats Dan and Erin on finding each other and a wonderful wedding.

 

Earthly Remains & Heavenly Shoes July 5, 2009

Like the Egyptian's I want to buried with  treasures and riches... such as these fabulous Michael Kors gold heels.  Photo by Jean Thornton.

Like the Egyptian's I want to buried with treasures and riches... such as these fabulous Michael Kors gold heels. Photo by Jean Thornton.

A recent discussion about cemetery plots has me thinking about my final resting place… well not so much MY final resting place, as I prefer to be cremated and then have my ashes sprinkled across the threshold of several high-end shoe stores.  My concern is more about what will happen to my earthly goods—or  more specifically, my shoes.  I would like to think that the Smithsonian National Museum would be a fitting final shoe closet for my collection—but  if I recall their display of  Dorothy’s Ruby Red Slippers correctly, I am not too assured my shoes will be handled with the care I would want them to receive. 

It may be gruesome to some to think about the end of life, and since I am still in my twenties, it may even seem silly to many.  Yet, if you looked at the height of my shoes and my lack of grace, the phrase “death by high heel fall” may very well appear in my obituary.  If I do not plan now, I could risk leaving my loved ones with tremendous pain and arguments as they determine what to do with my shoes and handbags.  I can imagine my shoes being split up, one sister-in-law getting my Calvin Klein white buckle stilettos and another getting the Michael Kors with mink puffs and gold stacked pumps.  Like siblings being separated in a bad Lifetime movie, this is not the future I want for my shoe family. 

While my condo may contain more than just shoes, I am not nearly as concerned with those items.  My surviving relatives will surely take the things with family sentimentality and history.  Since my dog is absolutely adorable I am sure he will be welcomed into a home without haste… the cat will have a harder time, but she has made her own bad attitude bed to lie in.  Pretty much everything else is of little value since I have always invested in shoes above all else. 

So what do I do with the greatest achievement of my life, a shoe collection well suited for the size seven foot? (Of course there are also a few wild card sizes that I cram my toes into.)  I have a dear friend with an equivalent foot size, but she used to keep her shoes in a large box.   At that time she lived in a smaller home than her current place, I have not gotten the image of heels scrunching leather toes and twisted bows out of my mind.  Plus, she is having children, so who knows what the future of her closet holds. 

My other friends may share a love of shoes but not the dedication I need.  There is a certain way I would want my shoes cared for in my permanent absence.  I need to know that on a Friday night, a great pair of black satin pumps will be paired with a Juicy Couture handbag, and that my funky Betsy Johnson wedges will still be loved enough for an office appearance.  Wherever my shoes make their new home, I want them have the same shoe values I gave them.  Surely, shoes that made my life fuller deserve to have their lives continued in a happy manner after I am gone. 

I fear that without a specified home for my shoes, they may be given to the Salvation Army and sold next to old work boots to complete strangers who are not even screened for the stability of their home, let alone their closet.  Would you let your human kids be treated in this manner?  Sorry, but an orphanage is not an option for my shoes! 

It is clear that I need to talk with my family and an estate lawyer about ensuring my shoes will be taken care of when my time on earth ends.  While to them it may seem an odd request, to me it would be a request honoring my memory and the life I lived.  Question my level of mental stability if you like, but ask yourself this: What will become of your valued mementos after you have passed?   Be it a childhood stuffed animal or your high school football trophy; they represent who we are—or at least how we view ourselves. 

After we are gone a marker may be placed to note our final spot in a cemetery or a plaque may recognize a charitable donation in our memory.  Whatever we choose, our spirit is surely not there; it is with those we leave behind and how they remember us that represent our legacy.  Part of that remembrance may very well be keeping that drooping stuffed animal, high school trophy, or even few hundred pairs of shoes in place of honor.  Regardless, it is my hope that those items will be treated as my memory will be, with a level of respect that I hope I have earned. 

Perhaps, I should resolve to be buried with a double plot so one marker could read, “Stephanie Kaple, Loving Sister, Daughter, Friend—and Fabulous!” and the marker beside could read, “Every damn pair of shoes because she couldn’t trust any of you to love them as she did.”  But then I would have to worry about grave robbers… they went after Abe Lincoln; surely they would go after my shoes.

 

 
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