The Island Shoe Girl's Blog

Where shoes meet sand…

Getting Her Mrs. February 14, 2010

Filed under: Love Me, Love My Shoes — theislandshoegirl @ 10:22 am
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You may not be a gold digger but these gold Nine West heels are perfect for picking up whatever you love...men or shoes. Photo by Jean Thornton.

Valentines Day has traditionally been a day of showing love and devotion through candy, flowers, and jewelry sold at mall chain stores.  I prefer to go with Stephen Stills advice and love the shoe I’m with…okay maybe he meant love the person your with but I am taking poetic license with this one.  I am not a relationship girl and while I admire those who can stay in a relationship, I am happy to watch their devotion of love, arguments, break-ups and sobbing fits from the outside. 

In college I watched many very smart young women who had chosen majors listed in the college course catalogue, but spent most of their time researching Mister Right at parties.  I met many of these ladies who had no further ambitions than getting married.   Yes, they are perfectly capable of working and are very smart, educated women.  Yet, no matter what their diploma says, those girls got their M-R-S.

Some may be skeptical about this existence of the “Mrs.” certified crowd but look no further than your television screen.  The whole premise of the television show The Bachelor is that hoards of women will put their whole lives on hold to pursue a man they have never met and in hopes that he will select them.  As these ladies work the room like a stripper works a pole, production puts their name, age, hometown and the occupation they are willing to leave behind in order to marry this mysterious stranger.  Thousands apply, but only 25 women get to publicly date a man they know is not only seeing someone else, but that someone lives in their house.  Still they fight for the right to be dumped in front of their competition in a search to get the coveted “Mrs.” in front of her name. 

A friend once asked if she could nominate me for The Bachelorette, to which I responded that as much as having 25 men willing to become unemployed, move into my home and life on a whim, sounded absolutely fabulous (note sarcasm here) it sounded a lot like my job at the homeless shelter.  The concept seems ridiculous when I consider it in reverse so how can it not seem ridiculous when these women are filling out their online contestant application while skimming bridal magazines?  Should I believe that these women are truly searching for a fairytale love that can only happen on network television?  Or should I give into the sinking suspicion that these ladies are looking for only the amazing engagement ring at the final rose ceremony? 

If I break away from The Bachelor season 75 and turn my remote control towards a more sophisticated basic cable station, Bravo, I am afraid I find more of the same.  The Millionaire Matchmaker is back to interviewing an unending line of women who want to marry millionaires.  As the unmarried (those who can’t, teach) match-maker critiques women and tells them to push up their breasts, line their eyes, and laugh at his jokes to help snag a piece of the checking account and an enchanted ending.  That’s right, they are not looking for the good old-fashioned Catholic boy my grandmother hopes each of her granddaughters ends up with, but instead are counting the zeroes on his credit limit.  Why base a relationship on common values when you can base it on his net worth?  

As a woman who wants to be viewed as a successful, independent person who can stand on her own two feet, what I struggle with is the concern that the whole female gender gets lumped into one category of someone who does not need to be taken care of, but wants to be taken care of.  The easy solution is to change the channel and hope that it is not a Girl’s Next Door marathon on E! this weekend.  But the irritation remains within me that there is an industry the viewing public buys into, that promotes this image of woman as the standard not the exception. 

A part of me wants to not be bothered and to say “let each woman chose her own way in life”, and if that is the “Mrs.” path they want, then you go girl!  After all, there are many that question the path I have taken and the shoes I take it in.  Can I be secure enough in my own choices to be comfortable with the choices that are completely different from my own?  Perhaps the true test of an independent woman is to watch without judgment the choices of others and still be happy and secure in her own. 

Yes, maybe I am secure enough in my own life choices to accept the choices of women; whatever those choices are.  Hey, maybe someday I will want to get to my “Mrs.” and maybe I will take up throw pillow selection full time. Until then, I am putting on Running in Heels—are these girls the magazine moguls of tomorrow? That remains to be seen.  But at least they are fighting for a job, not a man.

 

PARTNERING UP February 7, 2010

Filed under: Love Me, Love My Shoes — theislandshoegirl @ 9:51 am
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These BCBG heels are the perfect partners for my feet! Photo by Jean Thornton

It’s hard to be a single person.  The partner idea has been pounded into our heads since birth.  As soon as a child enters the world, the new parents envision his or her future and much of this future has a partner in the picture.  From the partner you share your crayons with to your lab partner, the message is clear.  Nothing strikes more fear in your heart then the phrase “partner up”—whether for gym class or to give a presentation—you have to commit to this other person who will now become half of you.  

Marriage is the ultimate “partner up” of life.  The natural progression is one that involves the acceptance of a permanent partner.  No one wants to think about the inevitable reality that our parents will leave us.  Our siblings will develop their own separate lives and families.  So it is undeniable that there is pressure to find that partner before it’s too late and we are left holding the bag alone.  But what do you do when you do not have a partner?

Since there is such great pressure to find this partner, I can only assume that the benefits of this partner must be numerous.  As a single person my successes and my failures are my own and mine alone.  There is a rush of pride I feel when I achieve a success, often followed by a let down when there is no one to share in my happiness.  Buying my first home was an amazing step in my life; however, dragging all those boxes in by myself was not so amazing.  When I was wrestling my new Pier One console table out of its box that could have been described as the ultimate death match, that sense of joy dwindled.  I have heard some friends and family talk about popping bottles of champagne when unlocking the door as homeowners; all I popped was Tylenol for aching muscles.  This was compounded by the look people gave me when I said I bought a home…alone… without a man… without help from dad… and I was living in it alone.  It was like saying I did not need the sun.  One person said what a great catch I was for a guy since I now had property attached to me.  Throw in two donkeys and I am one hot piece of ass! 

Even in my education and career, I find this push for a partner.  A professor whom I respect greatly gave me one of the biggest boosts of my academic life when he nominated me for a prestigious award.  He encouraged me to continue my education past my master’s degree and pursue a doctorate.  As I explained my desire to strike out into the world and gain a better understanding of what life was, he nodded with sincerity.  He understood the urge to learn life lessons from living.  He then said when I was married and had babies I could go back to school.  I felt like I had been pushed down an ivory tower.  I wanted to pick up my pots and pans and go home. 

So I go home to my condo I own alone.  To the dog and cat I alone walk and feed.  I open the bills addressed only to me and write the checks that come only from my checking account.  I control the remote!  That’s right whether I want to watch hours of Bravo or Glen Beck, I am an independent woman when it comes to my television viewing.  Unfortunately E-harmony, Match.com and a million other dating services are bombarding me.  All I need to find love is a lap top, wi-fi, and a team of experts to match me with somebody in St. Louis. 

Do I believe that you have to have a partner to be in happy in life?  Probably not.  Do I believe it makes life easier to have a partner?  Some days it might; some days it might not.  Do I believe that as long as I am not with a partner that I will be questioned as to where that partner is? Ugh…yes.  Do I think married girls still deal with the partner question? Definitely. 

It comes down to that undeniable push.  We are told to find that partner, but once it is found I can only assume there is some challenge to maintaining the partner balance. Even crayon partners sometimes hogged the blue crayon; surely there must be similar challenges when it comes to sharing in a marriage.  So perhaps the best advice to give on the partner hunt is this: there are times in life when everyone longs for a partner and there are times in life when everyone longs to be alone.  Single or partnered up, you will face both times.

 

The Straying Shoe Girl January 10, 2010

Filed under: Love Me, Love My Shoes — theislandshoegirl @ 9:01 am
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These Steve Madden's were love at first sight... of course so were the other 3 pairs I bought too. Photo by Jean Thornton.

Shoe monogamy may not be a hot topic, but recent celebrity scandals have prompted me to think a little a bit about the wandering eye I have when it comes to my true love—shoes.  No public figure can completely escape the glare of the magnifying glass that those with more private and less exciting lives tend to apply.  And those outsider views also bring a self-imposed right to debate and determine what they judge to be a fitting punishment.  While The Island Shoe Girl lives a pretty anonymous life (okay I am not shy when it comes to publicity), I cannot help but turn my own critical, know-it-all eye on myself and my inability to stay faithful to one shoe designer, let alone one shoe.

When it comes to personal relationships I can proudly say I have never betrayed the trust of another, but when it comes to shoes, my feet are pretty much the biggest ‘toe whores’ you can find.  Sometimes I am in and out of several pairs a day, loving them and then leaving them back in the shoe closet as quickly as I can slip them on and off.  Yes, one minute open-toe pumps the next knee-high boots with zippers that twist around my calf.  It’s not that I don’t love the little soles attached to each pair; in fact, I may love them all too much.  I simply have a big heart and, while my shoe closet does not match my heart size, I always find a little more room for the next pair. 

I honestly do fall in love with shoes; many times I have declared a pair the ultimate accomplishment in shoes.  Yet, as soon as the scuffs are on the soles and the design has been admired by others, my mind begins to think of what other shoes may be out there.  Could a pair of Kate Spade suede stilettos be out there waiting for me tomorrow, or should I stop with the Michael Kors’ platforms under toe today?  The curiosity of what waits for me beneath the next shoe box lid keeps me straying from one pair to another. 

I can understand when wandering eyes prowl the shoe section despite having the support of fabulous footwear under their legs.  I myself have cruised the displays of fanciful shoes, fully aware that back home another pair waits for me faithfully, never thinking of another foot.  Like a john searching for a cheap thrill, what I have at home in my shoe closet is never enough to appease my wondering mind.  My addiction, however, may only come with hefty credit card bills and another pair of strappy black sandals—the addictions that break the hearts, souls, and trust of people usually carry far more damaging scars.  

If my shoes could talk they probably could tell a few tales I don’t want out there…especially the ones that I wore during the last Fantasy Fest!   If there is a shoe gossip fest behind my closet door, I hope the older shoes are breaking it gently to the new shoes.  I can see it now—the Betsy Johnson silver maryjane’s calmly explain to the Juicy Couture pumps that I won’t be calling on either of them tonight.  This leads me to wonder if my shoes tell themselves the same things “the other women” frequently say in the aftermath, “she told me she loved me,” or “when she picked me up she said I was different from all the others.”

Perhaps it would be wise for me and others to re-examine our own morals and ethics before throwing judgment at the feet of those who may remain shoe faithful but fail in other areas.  After all, if life has taught this shoe girl one thing it’s that the other shoe is always waiting to drop.  If you are not careful it could land on your own toe with quite a thud.

My poor shoes might be just as misguided by my wandering toes as those who fall for people who have wandering hearts and eyes.  Shoe games surely are not as hurtful as games played with the heart.  My only solace is that I have never promised a single shoe my constant devotion.  I admit outright what I am.  Could there be a day when my feet belong to one pair of shoes?  Possibly, but I wouldn’t place any bets

 

Shoes that Pinch; Men that are Jerks October 10, 2009

Filed under: Love Me, Love My Shoes — theislandshoegirl @ 11:32 pm
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These Jessica Simpson boots look fabulous, but can leave my toes pinched. Photo by Jean Thornton

These Jessica Simpson boots look fabulous, but can leave my toes pinched. Photo by Jean Thornton

You know those heels that you have that are absolute nightmares yet also an absolute dream come true all at the same time—the ones that are stunning and breath- taking; they catch the eye of every person in the room?  Ah, yes, the shoes that you say are for “special occasions” like that fancy dinner and then your open casket viewing since you will certainly die from the pain that will accompany them.  And if you do survive, you will spend the next 48 hours changing bandages and monitoring the giant blister that has engulfed all 5 toes (if some have not fallen off) on your right foot. You will offer your friends weak excuses such as you are doing laundry or taxes instead of admitting you have essentially hobbled yourself and can no longer leave your home. 

Yet, as soon as the pain is gone and you can walk again, you will not keep the promise to God you made when begging not to have the pinkie toenail fall off.  The promise that stated you will never wear those devil shoes another time, that you would bury them in ground blessed with holy water so they could never torture another woman again.  No, you will instead bask in the glory of being the woman with the most amazing shoes, and you will deny any pain or wounds left by these shoes now viewed as fabulous gifts from the heavens. 

So why…why wear the shoes that pinch and cripple your poor feet again and again?  It may be suggested by some that society has forced women into heels that can cripple various parts of our bodies, from our toes all the way up to our backs.  Others have determined that those dangerous shoes are ways to keep women weak, further promoting the idea of a damsel in distress waiting for rescue.   I have to disagree with these ideas and instead promote my own belief that women will sacrifice personal comfort for any form of vanity.  

It’s the same reason we date men that are jerks.  Just as sure as we will continuously desire the most painful yet beautiful shoes, we will also pick the biggest jerk yet most attractive men.  To be clear I am not talking about men that physically or emotionally hurt women, I am talking about the men that are so awful, whether self-centered, boring, or immature we know from the start there is no hope for this relationship.  Many women think they can change these men, but more often we just end up frustrated by our attraction to someone who is all wrong.

Suck it up, sister, and join the masses of women who have ignored their own gut feeling that he is all wrong yet you ride it out because he seems great at least “on the surface.”  And just like those blisters and the foot pain that you refuse to admit to, most likely you deny that any of those things bother you when talking with your friends.  Instead you claim that you actually enjoyed helping him tie fishing lines for his Sunday fishing trip as opposed to going to that nice dinner you were supposed to have that night. 

Often times we look back at these past dates from the other side of the fence and can clearly see the warning signs and flaws that most likely everyone else saw but was afraid to share with us.  There always seems to be that awkward moment about two months after a relationship ends when your friends start to mention that you were dating the world’s biggest jerk.  You almost feel like you had spinach in your teeth during a business lunch and only after the bill has been paid did anyone bother to tell you. 

We were lost in the moment, enjoying the glory of appearing to be in a fabulous and happy relationship despite the fact that we know this can only lead to incredible pain and a day of not getting out of bed.   Whether it is your toe slowly being crushed or the feeling in the pit of your stomach telling you not to believe him… you deny, deny, deny in order to keep up the charade.  After all, those shoes are Prada and everyone you know wants them, and he has a killer smile that every girl in the room wants to have flashed at her.  So surely neither those heels nor his smile can be bad.

After recovering from the broken heart and the bruising on your foot fades away, so does that memory of the jerk or the shoes that caused the pain.  Sooner or later our feet will be crammed into a pair of heels that—while fabulous—are still hurtful.  And unfortunately our hearts may be no better off; as soon as one dud of a man leaves another often follows.  It is then that we need our friends to point out to us the jerks who are lurking out there waiting to take the last one’s spot.    Hopefully, we will hear their warnings prior to making eye contact with the next Mr. Wrong and instead choose the good guy… if not the comfortable shoes. 

I am sorry to say there may not be much hope.  My closet is filled with amazingly beautiful yet painful shoes purchased in the aftermath of dating a disappointing guy.  And after all, deceivingly attractive men are often attracted to women in shoes that pinch; they know we enjoy the pain that comes with the looks.   And so the cycle continues.

 

To Love a Shoe Girl September 27, 2009

Filed under: Love Me, Love My Shoes — theislandshoegirl @ 11:00 am
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How can you not love a shoe girl in these Issac Mizarahi heels? Photo by Jean Thornton

How can you not love a shoe girl in these Issac Mizarahi heels? Photo by Jean Thornton

It can be nearly impossible to love a shoe girl in any form—be it a romantic love, a friendship love, or even a family love.  We are complicated creatures who have let our dreams run wild and had the good fortune (as well as the curse) of having those dreams come true.  We know that ankles can be adorned with rhinestones and bows.  We believe that toes should be wrapped in ribbons of satin and silk.  And we can be taken to new heights on delicate pedestals with pointed silver caps. 

Shoe girls believe in magic.  We think that mystery is a part of every day life and want to be just as mystifying as what the next shoe box holds.  The entire world becomes a shoe store to us; every where we look another example of imagination at work in ways we never thought could come to life.  Amazing feats of engineering that would baffle the architects of the greatest buildings of our time are standard expectations for a shoe girl. 

A shoe girl never stops searching for the next great shoe.  We fall silent in awe as we discover a new configuration of sole, arch, and heels that make us wonder just what next season’s pumps and platforms may bring.  The moment our minds seem satisfied with the shoe that fits, we are dreaming of the next, knowing it must be better since this one is more wonderful than the last.   We believe, like children believe in shooting stars and birthday wishes, that the next great shoe will come just as all the ones before it.

Our hearts are as big as our shoe closets and, just when we think it is full, we find a little more room.  Shoe girls remember their first pair of shoes just like they recall their second, the thirty-fifth, and the one hundred and seventeenth.  Like a faded corsage from a prom date, we keep the memories of what those shoes meant to us long after the event.  Whether the shoes were making us Cinderella, super heroes, or intelligent young minds accepting diplomas—each pair is a part of our own complicated history.

We are never satisfied with just being practical and often find that one pair is never enough… of course sometimes six pairs are not enough either!  It is easy to see us as self-centered or consumed with the joy of unwrapping a new pair of boots in early autumn.  But just the same we celebrate that every moment has a shoe and every shoe should have its moment.  Those new boots are destined for strolling through newly fallen leaves.  Strappy sandals are for summer weddings and dancing with good friends.  Sometimes a pair that celebrates the smallest accomplishment will lead to bigger moments in the future.

There are many things that could be criticized about a shoe girl, but there is usually much more that can be admired.  She may not always have the shoe or the answer for every situation; however, no one will try harder to find either one.  We are girls on a journey in stacked heels and spike stilettos; we are not always sure where our shoes are taking us, but we are blazing ahead at full tilt. 

Yes, a shoe girl can be hard to love.  But if you get the chance to love a shoe girl, she will probably love you just as passionately as she loves her shoes.  She will make sure you are protected from the elements and dangers of the world.  A shoe girl will believe in you whole-heartedly even when it seems your goals are impossible.  While others may think you have peaked, a good shoe girl will gently ask what’s next.  She will think of all the perfect moments you share and remember the imperfect ones with rose-colored glasses.

As frustrating and infuriating as a shoe girl may be to love, she is like that new pair of amazing heels that you just have to have even if she pinches a little and costs a lot.  All shoe girls know that pairs are a good thing and no single shoe can walk smoothly alone.  As much as we may try to do it all on our own, we understand the need for a match.  With that in mind we cautiously open our shoe closets and invite others along for the ride.  As difficult as we shoe girls are to love, it is even more impossible not to love us.

 

The Truth About Pain June 28, 2009

Filed under: Love Me, Love My Shoes — theislandshoegirl @ 12:56 pm
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I got that funny old feeling last weekend; actually, there were two funny old feelings and, in truth, neither of them were really “funny”.  In reality they were more along the lines of pain: one in my foot and the other in a figurative sense when I ran into an ex.  While both caused me discomfort, the first is still cramping my style because I am now sporting a walking cast on a foot normally dedicated to designer names. 

 First things first, why am I lop-sided and hobbling like a wounded runway model?  The direct cause is the broken big toe on my right foot, which actually has agitated the surgical screw from my toe surgery 10 years ago.  (Yes, I actually needed corrective toe surgery to continue my love affair with shoes.)  When and how I broke the toe this time is still a mystery since my feet usually hurt from the daily abuse of stilettos.  Thus, I cannot exactly pinpoint the break, and honestly, I was not all that eager to explore why my surgically enhanced toe was hurting again. 

After two weeks of increasing toe pain, I decided that it might be time for medical attention to determine what the heck was going on.  Waiting until Monday meant another weekend shift as the restaurant ‘hostess with the mostess’ including the most-ess toe pain.   Even with my feet in Michael Kors’ wedge tennis shoes, my attitude was less than charming by the end of my shift.  But I was thrilled to be having dinner and drinks out with some friends, and so I stuck my damaged foot into the cutest Steve Madden open-toe heels and began the night with a little wince here and there.  

Halfway through my second glass of wine, another kind of pain showed up.  If I have said it once, I have said it a hundred times: Dating on an island can create a figurative landmine of exs.  A recent one strolled up to the table, and suddenly excruciating toe pain seemed a preferred feeling over the uncomfortable tension of having to talk to him as if we were old friends who had lost touch.  I have never been so grateful for a well-timed text message as the one I received at that moment!  Of course I would have been grateful for a phone call saying my car was being repossessed if it meant something to distract me from the unfolding awkwardness.

There was no ping of love lost or a funny feeling in my stomach from one last butterfly fluttering.  No, none of that.  There was the pain of me clenching my jaw to keep from yelling, “Do you remember what you did?  Are you so ignorant to think that was okay?”  Thank God for my very pregnant friend who drew the focus onto herself with a perfectly timed rub on her belly and said, “Oh Baby!”  Later, when he had the nerve to send over a glass of wine, she advised me to do three shots when I got home so I would just pass out.  You are going to be the best mom!

I would be lying to say the only thing that kept me awake that night was a throbbing toe.  I wasn’t tossing and turning because I missed him; I was restless because I knew I wasted my time by being hurt by him to begin with and then by thinking he might come to the realization of how thoughtless he had really been. 

Come Monday morning the news at Urgent Care was that I probably should spend more time thinking about good medical care than this summer’s new sandal styles.  I was being sent to a podiatrist—never a good sign for a shoe girl.  With one more day of shoe freedom ahead, every step I took reminded me that going to the doctor was the right decision.  Despite that fact that I now write this with one foot in a Nine West heel and one foot in a Maxtrax walking boot, I know I had to face the situation in order to deal with the pain.  The next six weeks might leave me lop-sided as I try to keep at least one foot in style, but I also know I need to resolve the injury in order to face a brighter shoe future. 

Much like this less-than-shapely boot, I also have to face that “after it’s over” run-in with a grin-and-bear it attitude.  I know any feelings I had for him are in the past (as I hope this boot soon will be) and that dealing with the annoyance and pain of seeing him is just part of getting better.  Any pain generally means damage has been done, but it doesn’t mean the damage cannot be repaired.  A broken toe can leave the foot weak, but if it is allowed to recover, it ends up stronger in the long run.  I think the same thing can be said about a broken heart.  It may ache a little at the time but given the chance to heal, it will be back in working fashion soon enough. 

For now these awesome Betsy Johnson Wedges will have to wait on the sidelines for my toe to heal. Photo by Jean Thronton

For now these awesome Betsy Johnson Wedges will have to wait on the sidelines for my toe to heal. Photo by Jean Thornton

 

The Shoe Breakup June 7, 2009

Filed under: Love Me, Love My Shoes — theislandshoegirl @ 4:16 pm
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These Steve Madden shoes were made for walking away with your head held high. Photo by Jean Thornton

These Steve Madden shoes were made for walking away with your head held high. Photo by Jean Thornton

Dating can be hard; dating on an island can be a nightmare. So accepting a set-up by friends can be as frightening as a Jaclyn Smith outfit at Kmart. As I walked to the waterfront bar where the meeting was to occur, I passed a guy. I had a brief thought of “damn why can’t that be him.” My cell phone rang seconds later and it WAS the pass-by arranging our meeting spot. He was charming, funny and had a great crooked smile that was like seeing a new pair Michael Kors’ boots. He had seemed a little “too good on paper” and I considered this our first and last meeting. I was shocked when he asked me to dinner the next night and followed through. How could a serious businessman be interested in a social worker in Betsy Johnson wedges?

But that is the way life goes and the next thing you know, this shoe girl was meeting his friends and inviting him to her regular bar. He sent cute text messages, complimented my shoes, and even offered to watch Sex and the City the Movie. To add to his appeal, he told me that he never wanted to get married, which was good news to me because I canceled my mandatory subscription to Bride Magazine years ago. I helped him buy new sheets, watched football and wore the smallest swimsuit I owned in a very cold hot tub. For the first time in a long time I actually liked the little thing that had started. I don’t date anyone. I don’t like to share the sofa. I don’t like feeling the obligation to call or text at the end of the night. Yet, I was doing it. Looking back, I disgust myself and can only blame me for going against my normal avoidance of these things.

Maybe if I had not been distracted by the office and shopping I would have kept my guard up and not ended up on the receiving end of one the most insulting and strangest breakup scenes. After a romantic dinner at a small restaurant we held hands as we walked back to his house. He then handed over a bag containing a beautiful pair of Dolce Vita’s I had been drooling over and which I had shown him only 48 hours before. He totally messed up the size but in my giddiness and the mental planning of how I would sleep in them that night I did not even care. Giving me shoes is pretty much the equivalent of giving me GHB; I am putty in your hands. It was a like a lost scene from Pretty Woman.

I was too high on the pedestal to see what was coming next. It’s been real, it’s been fun, please show yourself to the door. Timber! Move aside—girl in brand new heels falling flat on her face. He actually used the phrase ‘soul mate’, as in how we were NOT soul mates. What? This was a soul mate thing? The only soul mate talk I like refers to the kind of sole mates that have matching Prada stamps on them. And how can he possibly know if I am any kind of mate considering I took more time picking out shoes for my brother’s wedding than dating him! He then threw a dirty one at me, “You’re the kind of girl you marry.” Sucker Punch. Pulling together the best do-not-slap-him or cry-in-front-of-him moment in history, I made the hurt-filled walk out of his house, leaving the shoes. (Hold on! I will explain this in moment.)

In the time since, I have tried to figure out where my casual fling went wrong and why does it bother me so much. I never parked my shoes in his closet, as I am a firm believer in keeping my stuff in my space and his stuff in his space. He initiated a lot of the relationship milestones and shared about his divorce without any prying from me. I was honest with him that I was unable to see wedding bells in my future. I may be the only female in the world over the age of 8 who does not plan and re-plan a mental wedding. I like being single and have no plans to walk down any aisle except the shoe aisle.

As I ease the pain and confusion in my usual manner of shopping, shopping, and more shopping, my record-breaking three designer handbags in one month has not made me forget his name or other things. I cannot help but wonder if the time I spent with him was the real him or was that last night the real him. Somehow the guy I dated for weeks seemed to disappear in a moment somewhere between putting shoes on and taking them off; a new guy sat in his place—and he seemed to have no clue who I was.

I am a card-carrying member of the Commitment Fearful Women of America Club. I have a re-occurring nightmare where I am at my wedding reception and when asked “how excited I am” I say I think I made a big mistake. I just do not have the bride gene. That gene has been replaced with the double shoe gene. It’s a very rare condition, watch for a journal article someday on this.

So why did “my let’s just take it slow and watch where it goes” attitude get misread as a mail order bride in hiding? Is it really that hard for men to believe that there might be women out there who only want to date them and not set a wedding date? Am I that big of a freak of nature that it cannot be comprehended that I am not waiting for a rescue by Prince Charming but instead prefer to pay my own way in life. In the big picture of life does every diamond ring have to be on the left hand or can my right hand be a symbol that I am happy simply being someone’s partner not his everything. Just because I have ovaries does not mean I have a biological clock ticking- who said a kid would go with any of those 3 new bags!

As I replay that night in my head, there are some things I could have said or done differently. I am not sure it would make a difference. If the guy who ventured shoe shopping for me can, less than 24 hours later, decide I am not worth his company, I am not sure he can explain how it ended as it did. I wrestle with the idea that he was all an act, some sort of dating mirage or that he lost his mind somewhere in that shoe box. Regardless, it’s done and those shoes may still very well be sitting in his closet as a silent memorial to this Island Shoe Girl.

I have since thought of a few other places I could have put them that make me smile a little. As much as I loved those shoes for that brief moment I had them on, that is all it was and to keep them would have be an insult to the woman I am. As much as I may have liked him for those brief weeks, that appears to be all it was. If he cannot see the ‘me’ that I see, then I am better off without him… and the shoes.

 

Real Life vs. The Movie Date April 26, 2009

Filed under: Love Me, Love My Shoes — theislandshoegirl @ 3:18 pm
Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

These heels may be be Oscar worthy, but they are not scripted shoes these are the real life stunners. Photo by Jean Thorton

These heels may be be Oscar worthy, but they are not scripted shoes these are the real life stunners. Photo by Jean Thornton

It’s the first date scene we all know so well. The couple meets shyly, he is left speechless by her beauty, and she smiles sweetly and tucks her shiny hair behind her ear. One them says something stupid like, “let’s do this” and Cheap Trick’s “I Want You to Want Me” starts to play. It’s how every first date starts… at least it’s how they start in the movies. Sure, you can rotate any location for the meeting spot—a lobby, her front door, or a bar. That part is as changeable as what he is wearing—maybe a suit, a casual button-down shirt, or the best his favorite team’s hat which at the end of the date she will be adorably wearing as they share an awkward but sweet first kiss.

In the movies first dates look easy. Set the mood with some cute one-liners that no person in history has ever been cool enough or witty enough to think of on a first date. Then show some quickly cut scenes of the two laughing so hard that they fall into each other’s arms. Show him buying her a flower from the conveniently-placed street vendor, or—better yet—winning her a teddy bear from the carnival that magically appears on a first date. Or to be even cuter, she wins the teddy bear because she is secretly awesome at all sports!

The date ends with them strolling slowly beside a dimly-lit waterfront or cobblestone street where they pass an elderly couple that, for some reason, is out at 2am strolling hand in hand. He leaves her at her door with a gentle kiss. Of course they both want more, but being that this is completely fictional they resist the temptation as she starts up the stairs to her fabulous and completely unaffordable brownstone. He starts to leave as she slips in the door. But wait! She calls his name and rushes back down the stairs. Of course not for one more passionate kiss, but to return the article of his clothing she ended up wearing, the previously mentioned suit jacket or baseball hat, which he forgot because he was so enthralled with her. All together now, “awe!” and all together once more, “bull shit!”

The only thing more ridiculous is the end of that movie where the couple that seemed so perfect for each other on that first date yet later separated in the easy-to-see- through plot by the cruel twist of fate most often called a “misunderstanding” or the big kicker “an error of timing.” Worry not, they will get back together; they ALWAYS get back together! It is usually in some ridiculous display involving a gut-wrenching love proclamation in front of a large crowd of strangers and that guy in every movie that yells, “kiss her already” from a construction site. It’s the movies and therefore nothing like any real life experience.

In real life it is more likely that you just watched that horrific movie on an equally horrific first date during which you were trying to figure how quickly you can make this date end with out seeming to be outright rude or obviously afraid of your date. Instead of witty banter or moments of falling over laughing, you have deduced that your date was apparently raised in some alternate universe where everyone says the absolute wrong thing. Rather than sparks flying as you brush his hand, yours has been glued to the door handle just in case you need to bail out of the car to escape him. In place of gazing across a candle-lit dinner, you have spent fifteen minutes wondering if you could fit through the bathroom window (why are they always so small).

The morning after the bad date I am generally on the phone with a friend who is trying to talk me down from my post date ledge. On one particular occasion I actually had to put ice on my jaw after my date practically broke it with his kissing skills. As I mumble through the pain the details of my latest from bad to worse date, I have to ask her what happened to the dates from the movies. Instead of sharing how amazing he was and the instant sparks when we our eyes met, I am more concerned about having to join the witness protection program or hiding out in Amish country to avoid a second date with Attila the Tongue.

Not to put all the blame on men—I am sure there are many scary women out there who are just as frightening as some of my past dates. I have heard many guy friends share their nightmare stories of ladies who confess on a first date that they think he is “the one” or the girls who cry during appetizers and then wonder why he does not ask them out again. I am in full agreement that the best approach is to just act like you died immediately after the date and never speak with the freakish person again. I say, why have the uncomfortable, random-excuse phone call if you have already had the uncomfortable date? Call a spade a spade and let the cards stay on the table.

For the record, I do have to admit that I had “the movie date” once. It was perfection from start to finish. He was standing waiting for me in the rain with an umbrella and had truly arranged a very top rate evening. We said witty one-liners, laughed so hard we fell over on each other, and watched that crazy old couple out past their bedtime dance slowly to the band. Believe it or not there was even the moonlit walk by the water. Minus the mysterious carnival that pops up in every movie, everything else was screenplay magic.

The end result? Not a fabulous reunion on a crowded street or him carrying me out of a factory in his Navy dress whites, but a full dose of the reality that those dates do not work out in real life—only in the movies. In real life the ones that are most likely to get a squeal are the dates that happen over a couple of beers and burgers that are casual and, most importantly, do not reveal the crazy version of yourself… leave that in the closet with your high school letter jacket.

 

How to Date a Shoe Girl March 22, 2009

Filed under: Love Me, Love My Shoes — theislandshoegirl @ 5:11 pm
Tags: , , , ,

In life everyone draws a bottom line of the minimum they will accept in almost every aspect of life. With employment it may be a benefits package. With our home it may be the square footage. With friends it’s a level of trust. As firm as that bottom line can be, the longer the wait the more compromise available. The bottom line of dating is no different. Many women have uttered it, “I wouldn’t date him if I were stranded on deserted island with him.” Few have actually had to live those words. While Key West is not a deserted island, the pickings can be very slim. Factor out the gay men, the tourists, the ones too young and the ones too old, and you are left with about 20 available men. Now sprinkle those 20 available men in amongst the thousands rejected and the bottom line ends up very blurred.

For a shoe girl it gets even more complicated. Date me, date my shoes—all 82 pairs of them. And I literally mean DATE my shoes: compliment them, remember them, and notice both the new ones and the vintage ones. Never question why I need 5 pairs of fire engine red heels, just know that I do and most likely will need more. Anyone can remember an eye color, but can he remember the black satin BCBG stilettos I wore on Christmas Eve 2006?

As God planned my height, I am on the shorter end of the line-up at 5’3”, which is good height for any man—even those with a Napoleon complex. As Nine West planned it, I can be a fabulous 5’9” with one slip of a boot. I tend to rely on my footwear to increase physical status in life; in an average week, my height fluctuates between two to six inches depending on the day. The muscles in the back of my legs have given up any hopes of consistency and I have grown use to earth shattering leg cramps that will wake me from a dead sleep. Seriously, if you attached a Richter Magnitude Scale to my legs the results would make the San Andreas Fault seem like child’s play.

As hard as dating can be for a shoe girl, I understand that it can be equally as hard to date a shoe girl. Not only do you have to live up to standards of a shoe girl herself, you also have to live up to the ideals of Manolo Blahnik as well. Some girls and shoes wait a lifetime for that perfect moment, the moment that they were made for. Doesn’t every girl dream of the day when her father and her dream shoes walk her down the aisle?

Just as I expect a date to consider my likes and dislikes, he must also consider the likes and dislikes of my shoes, I can assure you not all heels love strolls along the docks or on the cobble stones streets. To some a sunset cruise is romantic; to me it’s a red flag because clearly he thinks I own non-skid shoes—what kind of girl does he think I am?

Everyone comes with baggage, mine is fairly small—it only holds a cell phone, ID and lip-gloss. The real issue I have is the shoe-age and it is not so easy to store. One of my biggest relationship phobias is the sharing of closet space. I totally expect to have to… breathe… compromise on the closet matter in a relationship. I think if I loved him enough I would actually let him open the shoe closet without supervision. I am sure there is a man out there who can handle the shoe-age I bring into a relationship. I am not looking for a Cinderella moment; I would run back for that lost shoe myself, but it’s nice to think he would slide it back on.

Some may say it’s absurd to place such importance on shoes when dating can be hard enough without introducing an extra factor into the mix. Like a single mother who must consider how soon to introduce a new boyfriend to her children, a shoe girl must also protect her shoes with each new date. After all, a girl tries on many dates before settling on man to spend her golden years with. Before then, there must be many bad dates, break-ups and letdowns. It is good to know that at the end of the evening a shoe girl can go home, slip into some Jimmy Choos and spend the night with her shoe closet.