The Island Shoe Girl's Blog

Where shoes meet sand…

Real Women vs. Real Designers September 25, 2011

Filed under: Common Sense in Unsensible Shoes — theislandshoegirl @ 8:39 am
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Heels that are both runway and real women worthy. Photo by Jean Thornton

In fashion you are either in or you are out—or at least that’s what Heidi Klum tells us.  And it’s true that fashion moves faster than almost everything else, a point proven by the fact that the Spring 2012 clothing lines have been shown even before the official start of Fall 2011.  So I realize that this blog is already a bit out of style and perhaps more than a day late.  But this issue has bothered me so much over the last week that I felt a need to risk being yesterday’s fashion news.

About a week ago Project Runway gave its designers the challenge to design clothes for an “everyday woman.”  Each designer was paired with a woman’s boyfriend or husband to help plan an outfit that each woman would love.  All of the designers were instantly terrified at the thought of designing for a woman who might actually not be the same size as a dress form and then even more so frightened by the limited knowledge their “helpers” had when it came to determining what types of clothing or styles each woman preferred.  Their only relief was that they were not designing men’s wear… yet.

One designer, Oliver, seemed to have the hardest time accepting the challenge.  Oliver became mortified at the fact that his model had breasts, and not just any boobs but large breasts.   Oliver’s first plan seemed to be to just ignore that his model has breasts all together, but his helper’s persistent referencing to his wife’s breasts blew this whole plan. 

Things were only made worse for Oliver when his real woman/model showed up and not only had breasts but also opinions and the ability to speak.  At no point was his model rude or demanding, but she did express real concerns about Oliver’s design and how it would look and function on her body.  This is where Oliver stopped being a troublesome reality show contestant and started being…well, an asshole…and Oliver explains to the camera that he would really just like to design for women with no breasts, opinions, or voices. 

That might seem like the ranting of a frustrated designer unable to create the perfect outfit for a client, but the more I thought about it the more disturbing his words became.  Oliver wasn’t frustrated that he couldn’t find a common vision or make his client feel good in the clothes he was designing.  Instead he was complaining about the very things that make women, women.

What’s sad about this for me is that Oliver skated by the judges; they didn’t hear how horrifically he treated the very concept of designing for women.  Here on a show where the whole concept is creating beautiful garments for women to be bought by women, Oliver, who presumably hopes to one day be a successful women’s designer (he is after all on Project Runway!) was able to degrade women in such a deadpan display to the camera. 

At the end of this episode, Oliver made it safely to the next round.  The judges never questioned Oliver’s real-life model and husband about their experience working with him.  And when the other contestants commented he was lucky to have made it through this week, Oliver was both without emotion and appeared unaware that he had not truly fulfilled the spirit of the challenge or the show.  Thus, in some small way, real women everywhere took a step back off the runways of life and were put back on the sidelines to watch. 

I wonder if the judges who were not privy to Oliver’s comments at the time of taping saw them later and felt just a little twinge of worry.  Did they as people who have successfully launched careers based on selling beautiful fashions to women (of all shapes and sizes as Michael Kors does design beyond a size 2) take any pause at what Oliver said?  Did they worry that maybe a designer like that could hold back women’s fashions?  Or did they not find Oliver’s comments or challenge designing for a real women concerning at all? 

Let’s be honest, most models who strut the Fashion Weeks’ runways are not the same size as the majority of women in the world.  For many ‘real’ women, the sidewalks, offices, and little places where we spend our days are the only runways we get to grace.  It would be sad to think that someday a designer could take those runways away too.

 

Family Tradition August 21, 2011

Filed under: Love Me, Love My Shoes — theislandshoegirl @ 10:27 am
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A perfect pair of Dolce and Gabana heels for a girl who loves stilettos, island life and and little drink now and then! Photo by Jean Thornton

Hank Williams Jr. sums up his tendency to drink, smoke, and sing all night long by claiming it is a family tradition.  I now can make the same claim about my own habits of wearing stilettos and drinking wine.  It seems that my love of shoes and appreciation for cocktails have deep-seated roots in my family history. 

For years I figured I got my love of shoes from my grandmothers, as both were true shoe girls in their day.  But now I have learned that the double shoe gene I posses actually comes from my great-great paternal grandfather.  No, this is not a major confession or deeply held family secret about a secret cross-dressing past… it was simply a well-laid business plan.

This past week my father was helping my grandmother go through some family paperwork.  At one point during this process, he learned that my great-great grandfather had been a cobbler that owned his own shop.  Next door to the shop was a little tavern that he owned as well.  When business at the shoe store was slow and the town seemed empty, my enterprising ancestor decided to open a tavern that would draw in the residents from the more distant areas near the town.  Being a genius of a man, he realized that while the men drank, the women could shop; thus creating a bloodline fueled (nourished) by shoes and booze.  

Clearly, my great-great father was an innovator and businessman far before his time—today, people would call him an entrepreneur. You have to wonder if today he would run a high-end cocktail lounge with a shoe salon attached.  Forget, Skinny Girl Margaritas and get ready for “Stiletto Shots”—the drink that fits in your high heel.   

Fast forward a few generations and he can find his great-great granddaughter most nights in her favorite heels sipping a cocktail aroundKey West.  Having the sudden knowledge of this part of my family’s past has given me a better understanding of myself.  It has often been asked how a girl who likes fashion and shoes so much could find herself in a town where bars, beaches, and boat docks provide some major shoe hazards.  Wouldn’t I prefer to live somewhere with unending shoe stores and where the art of walking in a six-inch stiletto is appreciated? 

Yet, I stay on my little island where my heels can garner strange looks from flip-flopped observers as I am biking to my favorite bar.  And now I know that my love for both shoes and a good drink come from something greater than the logical explanation of drinking to dull the expected foot pain that comes with many of my shoes.  My love of shoes comes from a long family line of shoe lovers who also happen to value a strong drink at the end of the day. 

As Hank Jr. would say; “They all ask me, shoe girl why do you drink, why do you wear heels, why must you live out the blogs that you wrote?  Stop and think it over; try to put yourself in my unique position.  If I get drunk and wear stilettos all over town, I’m just carrying on an old family tradition.”

 

One Woman’s Fashion… July 31, 2011

Filed under: Common Sense in Unsensible Shoes — theislandshoegirl @ 9:01 am
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A chic YSL heel is always in good taste. Photo by Jean Thornton

A new boutique opened on the island recently.  Because shopping opportunities are limited in Key West, a new boutique is very exciting news.  As soon as the signs announcing the new store’s arrival went up, I started receiving text messages, phone calls, and comments from my friends who know how much I enjoy the shopping experience.  There was also a rumor that the name included the word “chic!”  My little fashion heart was racing.

On the day the window displays were revealed, however, my heart slowed to a dull thud.  In my opinion, there was clearly a serious misuse of the word “chic” to say the least.  There were no simple black sheaths with large over-sized necklaces, no carefully paired tailored skirts and fitted tops, and certainly no use of editing to emphasize sophistication.  Yet some women had referred me to this new boutique, claiming it had the cutest things, which made me wonder if perhaps there was some type of eye disease breaking out on the island causing tacky clothing to look chic to those afflicted. 

I will be the first to admit I have my prejudices against some fashion elements.  I have a distaste for leggings worn as pants and have taken a firm stance with my support of the “Leggings Are Not Pants” movement.  It is true I do not support the use of Uggs in any temperature or climate.  I cannot tolerate Crocs, a well-known fact.  And seersucker suits!  Forget about it!  I understand that there are certain types of shoes and clothing that I will never consider fashionable.  All this leads me to develop the fashion philosophy that one woman’s chic is another woman’s hot pink tube top, making me question how good and bad fashion can vary so much amongst women.

The perfect example of fashion worlds colliding is watching TLC’s newest spinoff to Say Yes to the Dress: Bridesmaids.  As if watching a bride sweat out one of the most important fashion decisions of her life while her mother, sister, future in-laws, and obviously jealous friend rip apart her dream wedding dress was not enough?  Now TLC gives the bride a chance to put her wedding party in the same hot seat, except now five women are pitted against each other in an attempt to look their best in taffeta.  Despite that these women all share, at a minimum, a common friend and perhaps are friends with each other as individuals, they all have different ideas of which one is the best dress.  Generally, the bickering pushes the bride to the point where she just picks something that will make her look better by making each bridesmaid look their worst. 

Maybe it is the vocabulary of fashion that confuses people.  As Bravo’s Real Housewives of Orange County showed us, just because you claim to be a designer doesn’t mean you actually know how to design, sew or use basic fashion definitions.  The blonde one with fake breasts…wait that doesn’t narrow it down very… well, one of them claimed to have created a couture clothing line.  Then she could not explain what couture meant; instead, she babbled a little and then was distracted by a shiny object.

Perhaps the mistake of bad fashion being mistaken as good fashion is generational.  In high school and college it seems like such a good idea to have a words printed on the butt of our pants.  Some people as adults wear playful kittens on their shirts or a concert shirt boasting the image of country singer.  Hey! I like Kenny Chesney too but I don’t wear his picture on my chest.   And let’s not forget the “yoga pants when you are not going to yoga look” that seems to plague women in their 30’s.  Men are not immune from bad fashion either, far from it, Mr. Inappropriate souvenir t-shirt wearer. 

But all these thoughts and attempts to understand how bad fashion happens are lost while staring a glaringly neon green halter top paired with hot pants that even made that poor mannequin look fat.  As I abandon the hope I had for a great new shopping destination, I had two thoughts: the first being that chic is in the eye of the beholder—or at least the wearer.  And second, thank God there is a liquor right next to this chic mess.

 

An Accidental Beauty Queen July 24, 2011

Filed under: Key West; Not Just for Flip Flops — theislandshoegirl @ 8:24 am
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tiara, sash and stilettos... the makings of an accidental beauty queen.

For most women, there are certain things in life that, if they do not occur by a certain age, you accept that they will not happen at all.  Let’s face it—if you are not a cheerleader by the end of high school, it probably isn’t happening.  If you have not mastered dancing in toe shoes by the time you are 21 years old, you most likely can put your prima ballerina career on the shelf.  And if you are not a beauty queen by age 23 you should stop practicing your “surprised” face for when you are crowned Miss America.  Or so I used to think…

I am an accidental beauty queen.  And at an age that is not really old (I am still in my 20s), but it IS well past that of every contestant in the Miss America pageant in recent years. It was years ago when I last watched any part of that pageant, and, like most women, I have other things to do with my evening than watch model-perfect bodies glide across a shiny stage.  But the last time I did watch, I distinctly remember realizing that at age 25, I was out of the running.  (According to the Miss America website you must be between the ages of 17 and 24 to compete.)  Yet, over the last year I have been on the strange path that has led to a sash, a tiara, and of course—a title. 

It all started a little over a year ago when a friend called late one afternoon and encouraged me to enter a local bikini contest for Miss Atocha, happening that evening.  The Miss Atocha contest is the kickoff for Mel Fisher Days, a yearly celebration of the well-known and loved treasure hunter in Key West, Florida.  Despite the fabulous prizes that included a large emerald and some prize money, I was hesitant for many reasons.  The first is that I generally don’t walk around public in a bikini, and the second is that my diet pretty much consists of cheese, cheese, and more cheese.  I graciously declined the offer…and then was continuously teased by my friends for refusing to enter.  In an effort to put them off, I agreed to enter “next year.”

Wouldn’t you know it—next year showed up 12 months later.   Unfortunately, my friends have good memories and did not forget my hastily made promise.  Since I knew I was trapped, I decided to be proactive and began a strict no cheese, no hot dogs, no subs, no greasy burgers—basically anything I loved to eat was off the menu.  Protein shakes can be a potential bikini contestant’s best friend.  Luckily, Miss Atocha is also based on how much money the contestants raise.  Now I could force my same friends who held me to my word to open their wallets.  Raising money for a good cause I am not afraid of; standing on a stage in a packed bar in bikini I am terrified of!

On the evening of the contest I stood nervously backstage in my embellished bikini with two thoughts and two shots of liquor running through my head.  First, how at 29 was I doing something I would have never done at 21?  And second, I really wanted a cheesesteak from Mister Z’s.  As I took the stage for the question and answer portion (just like the real Miss America!) an older woman grabbed me and shoved a $20 bill in my bikini top and told me I looked awesome.   Suddenly I realized we are always younger and braver in someone else’s eyes and maybe I should try to see myself through those eyes. 

I survived my trip on stage; I shook what my mama gave me and began collecting my donations.  I would like to say the 90 minute collection period flew by but I was more than relieved when it was time to hand over my collection bag.  My humiliation was not wasted, as I not only collected a tidy sum, but I also actually won first place.  It didn’t even take another shot to get me back on stage to claim my tiara, sash, armful of roses and yes—the large emerald too. 

Even though this was a barroom beauty pageant, I have to say the win was overwhelming.  Credit should be given to Miss America because the number of pictures I posed in for our one local paper was pretty intense.  At the end of the night I was happy to cover up the bikini and finally dive into that huge, cheesy sandwich.  I won’t lie, I wore the crown to get that sandwich and to several others places afterward. 

At the end of the day, little girls everywhere still dream of being a beauty queen, of wearing a glistening crown, and feeling like the prettiest woman in the country.  And I would guess that there are many grown-up women, long past the age acceptable for beauty pageants, that have the same dream too.   Whether 8 years old or 48 years old, it feels really good to wear a tiara and if for only a moment be the prettiest girl in the room. 

Now excuse me—I have to cut a ribbon at a local bank opening… royal duties call.

 

A Little Future to Go July 17, 2011

Filed under: Common Sense in Unsensible Shoes — theislandshoegirl @ 7:46 am
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With a good pair of heels, my future is wide open. Photo by Jean Thornton

Regular readers, friends, and family will know that the last three weeks have been very challenging.  A strange series of events led to my condo building being set on fire.  While the damage to my own home was significant, I was able to save the majority of my personal belongings.  The first time I was permitted to go back into my home, I was advised by the fire marshal to grab only the necessary items.  Little did he know that I considered 161 pairs of shoes essential.

Thinking I would be back the next day to retrieve more items, I focused mainly on clothes and shoes, due to concern that they would be damaged or permanently soiled from the water and smoke.  The next day I learned I could not go back into the unit since there was a great concern that the structural damage could be much worse.  Thus I found myself without many things that were normally part of my daily routine. 

One such thing was perfume.  And while I know one can live without perfume…soap not so much….it did not make the gap in my morning routine any less noticeable for me. 

While I have never considered myself a perfume expert or fanatic, I have always considered it an important accessory—especially when spending time standing outside in the hotKey Westsun talking to insurance adjusters.  But more so than just keeping me smelling sweet, perfume was yet another normalcy suddenly missing in my life. 

Coco Chanel once said, “A woman who doesn’t wear perfume has no future.”  And let’s face it,Cocoknew perfume and she also knew how to create a good future for herself.   If there is one thing that I know now, it is that dealing with a fire in your home can also make you question your future.  Suddenly, something that you worked and saved for, that you searched and prayed for, is taken from you with out any notice.  The reality is that for many of us our home is our future and the largest financial investment we make in ourselves. 

As the days after the fire seemed to only begat more days of frustration, sadness, and fear, my future seemed lost in a shuffle of insurance inspections, policies reviews, and what seemed like always-worsening news.  This is not to say that I was on a ledge of despair ready to jump into an abyss of self-pity.   I had many great friends continuously offering their support and help in many ways.  Yet, at the end of the day I was not going home.  And the truth is I am not sure that the condo that once was home can ever feel that way again.

With so much changing every day from where I walk my dog to the pillows I sleep on, the comforts of “home” began to seem lost.  It was one day that first week as I was digging for a lost set of keys that my fingers found a hidden treasure in the depths of my Coach bag… a travel size bottle of my perfume!  It may have only been a few ounces, but the scent reminded me that each day I could put myself together and face the world.  Sure, that world may be completely different from anything I have known in the past, but my future was still mine to determine.  Yes, there might be some hurdles I didn’t expect, but there was still a future. 

I think Coco Chanel was right, “A woman who doesn’t wear perfume has no future,” but if I could accessorize Chanel a little, I would add, “but much like perfume, our future can go wherever we take it.”  My future still has many challenges…insurance paperwork and probably much more packing and unpacking.  But the future—much like my perfume—will be with me every step of the way.

 

Stiletto & Croc of the Week June 24, 2011

Filed under: Stiletto & Croc of the Week — theislandshoegirl @ 3:56 pm
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The Stiletto of the week belongs to the Queen of Soul, Aretha Franklin.  Poor Aretha broke a toe this week in a Jimmy Choo related accident.  Now Aretha is forced to wear the medical boot of shame.  So even though Aretha can’t wear a stiletto on both feet, she can at least have our figurative stiletto!

The Croc of the week goes to Senator John McCain for first saying in a press conference this week that many of Arizona’s wild fires were caused by illegal immigrants.  Unfortunately there is no evidence that points to illegal immigrants starting these particular fires.  I am not sure if crocs are flame resistant but I think Senator McCain should avoid sparking any more fire controversy just to be safe

 

June Stiletto Society June 24, 2011

Filed under: Stiletto Society — theislandshoegirl @ 9:25 am
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Don’t forget Key West Shoe Girls…  Stiletto Society meets Wednesday June 29th from 7 to 9pm at Vinos on Duval located at810 Duval street.  Special guest this month Cloud 9 Spa!

Our shoe theme is RED HOT HEELS so wear your best red shoes and join us for drink specials (for elevated ladies only).

Don’t forget our shoe walk off with special guest judge Key West Lou! 

See you there shoe girls!

 

5 Years of Being the Island Shoe Girl May 22, 2011

Filed under: Key West; Not Just for Flip Flops — theislandshoegirl @ 9:12 am
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Its been five years of sand, stilettos, and drinks in Key West. Photo by Jean Thornton

I get asked frequently when I will be moving back “home”—which I think to the questioners are referring to Ohio. They sometimes seem surprised when I tell them I already live at “home”, because for me that is what Key West is. This week will mark five years since I moved to this little island that barely hangs onto the state of Florida. In my head it is hard to believe that so much time has passed. Most days I have a hard time even remembering what month it is, which is a hazard of living where the seasons are: kind of hot, hot, hotter and really freaking hot. Without the falling of leaves or snow and only hurricane season to mark the passing of time, it is easy to get lost in the days.

Perhaps five years is not really that long. Many people live their whole lives in one place and never say, “Hey, look, I am still here.” But Key West is really the first place I went to on my own, not as part of a freshman class or some sort of unit. And anyone who has lived in Key West for longer than a year has witnessed the many people coming and going from this island. There always seems to be someone new arriving and someone else leaving. The ‘locals’ start to appreciate this as part of the ever-changing scenery of Key West. You also begin to call places by their previous names, “you know that new place; remember it used to the interior design place with everything made of shells, then it was a cheap little dress store and now it’s a really nice wine bar.” It’s like speaking a special ancient Key West language.

I could easily reflect on the last five years and the many accomplishments and experiences I have had here. I could measure the years in the number of shoes I have bought or the creative ways I have devised to store them. I might consider how I have learned to walk in heels on sand and across boat docks without losing a shoe. Or the times I have received strange looks while riding my bike in 5-inch stilettos. The years could be tallied by the number of Fantasy Fest costumes or the stray beads left over from parades past. I could count the photographs and newspaper clippings on my refrigerator.

Maybe it’s the friends that I have made in the last five years that show how long I have been here. The sense of belonging it brings me when, no matter where I seem to go, I run into a person I know. Whether it’s taking the dog for a walk or running to the store for a forgotten item, it seems there is always someone to say hello to and know they will say it back. It’s the inside jokes, the promises we keep to get together soon for a drink, and the realization that you are never too far away from someone with a kind word. I will be the first to admit, it is a strange collection of friends, but I fit right in with them. There is a certain satisfaction that comes with knowing that your friends do not all fit into one category. It seems when we are young our friends are our friends because they live next door, are in dance class with us, or sit across the aisle in school. As an adult you get to select your friends—and having a grab-bag full of them is as good as a closet full shoes.

I sometimes wonder if it is the not-so-ordinary things that have become commonplace to me that mark the passing of time. I sleep through chickens crowing; I brake for iguanas without a second thought; and public nudity has just become part of daily life. Key West is full of the unusual; at least that is how it seems at first, but soon you hardly notice the guy dressed like Spiderman playing the sitar. It just becomes life. But a chance to eat at Arby’s, now that is a big occasion! I cannot help but speculate if visitors now think a girl walking on the beach in a pair of Jimmy Choos is odd.

At the end of it all, I guess what most signifies that I have been here for five years is that I have no desire to leave. When I think of where I would go, I cannot imagine any place that could give me a much as Key West. Whether it’s the wind in the palm trees on summer nights, the boats pulling across the water at sunset, or the laughter that spills out of a hidden bar… it just seems like nowhere else could ever be as good.

At least once a week I like to walk my dog out to the end of White Street Pier and look back at my island. Maybe Key West isn’t for everyone; some may only have to visit it once; for others, it is a nice break from reality every now and then. For me it is home. While I don’t know if it will always be home (life has a funny way of changing things for us), when I look at Key West from the end of the pier, it seems it could be my home for at least another five years.

 

A Little Bit of Change May 15, 2011

Filed under: Common Sense in Unsensible Shoes — theislandshoegirl @ 6:53 am
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It can take a lot of pennies to buy all these shoes. photo by Jean Thornton

Lately, I have been thinking about change a lot—as in spare change or coins. I know this seems like an odd subject for a shoe girl like me, but when I am not out trying to rid the world of ugly, flat, worn shoes I am a case manager at a homeless shelter. And while a homeless shelter does not always spark images of glamour, it does often spark unique thoughts and insights.

Last year our shelter was offered start-up funds to launch a coin collection as a means to increase the amount of cash donations we receive from our local community. And so far this idea has been well received. We are not the only group with coin collection boxes at many local checkouts; the idea is not a new one, but it has proven to be a good one. In general, the collection boxes fill up in a month’s time. This means once a month a large canvas bag of coins is brought to my office by a wonderful volunteer, and then it is my job to take the change to our bank and run it through the automatic coin sorter. This can take a good bit of time and gives me plenty of opportunity to ponder what these little pieces of zinc, nickel, and copper actually mean.

It seems to me that there are two types of people when it comes to this type of change: those who keep it and those who leave it. You are either the type of person who keeps change on hand in a pocket or change purse, or you are the type of person who would rather let it lay on a counter or you might even toss it in the trash. Sure there are people who are coin discriminators; maybe they will keep quarters or dimes but pennies and nickels they cannot be bothered with. They only want the “big” coins. Then there are those who want them all—dirty pennies, damaged quarters, find a nickel in the gutter… why not pick it up?

I am guessing it is the non-coin saving segment that drops their coins into our boxes. And perhaps the coin discriminators contribute their lesser valued cents, leaving behind a little change too. Regardless of who contributed the coins, they get a chance at having their full value recognized once they land in our boxes. As the coin sorter shimmies and shakes the coins along on their way to being sorted, an automatic counter tallies up their overall worth.

There are always some coins that are rejected and sent down to a small bin for me to try to prove their value. These coins are sometimes foreign coins that are perhaps just misunderstood by our American currency system; they don’t match our shape and size designs or perhaps use a different language. While these coins may not look like their American counterparts, with a little work and an exchange rate their value can be included also. Then there are the dirty or damaged coins. Sometimes these coins are so discolored, corroded from neglect, and worn down that it is hard to tell what type of coin it really is. The coin that maybe was stuck under the sofa cushions or floor mat is generally discolored and covered with some type of sticky goo.

Now here comes an opportunity for me to throw away these coins as less valuable or not worth my time. Yes, even if I scrub these coins for hours they may still individually be worth only one cent and, at most, maybe fifty cents if it is a long-lost half dollar. In the grand scheme of things it is probably not worth my time or the damage to my freshly-painted finger nails. Yet, I cannot bring myself to toss them aside. I feel a strange obligation to clean them, to try to determine what this coin is underneath all the goo and dirt, to look past the damage and wear. At the end of the day that neglected coin is still worth something. Maybe by itself it would not get very far, but with other coins it could add up to much more.

Maybe it’s the case manager in me that wants to see the good in everything and everyone. Maybe it’s because in those rejected coins I sometimes see my clients who might come to the shelter a little damaged and dirty but still with value. I guess it’s realizing that even when someone else decides there is not much value in something, I can still help find that essential worth. So for whatever reason those coins or those people end up with me and no matter how unlikely it seems that I could make either of them ‘shine’ again, at the very least I have to try to let their value show again.

I don’t expect every person to save and clean their coins, just as I do not expect everyone to give a homeless person shelter. But if these people can put a few of their ‘reject coins’ into our collection boxes, I am willing to clean them up for the chance to apply their value to helping others.

 

My Mother’s Shoes May 8, 2011

Filed under: Common Sense in Unsensible Shoes — theislandshoegirl @ 8:46 am
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A pair of my mom's more exciting shoes. Photo by Ben Kaple

I am frequently asked if my mother is a shoe girl too. I guess whenever anyone has an addiction like mine; there is a general desire to find out exactly when these habits started. There are many characteristics I share with my mother; blue eyes, fair skin and freckles to name a few. When it comes to shoes, however my mother and I could not be further apart at least when it comes to heel height.

As far back as I can remember my mom’s shoes they have never towered over a sensible three inches; this is not to say that my mom did not have heels they are just much lower than my five inch day to day shoes. Her shoes generally were on the more functional side. While I have a variety of shoes in all colors imaginable, my mom’s shoe collection had the basics covered: a red pair, a navy pair, a white pair, a black pair, some sneakers, a pair of sandals and faithful house slippers. They were lined up neatly on her side of the closet she shared with my dad. To a budding shoe girl they were still an area of great interest and I would frequently put my little girl feet inside and try to balance in the grown up shoes.

For most young girls, her mom’s shoes are toys. Every little girl seems to want to mimic her mother’s actions whether its playing in her toy kitchen or carrying a purse filled with all things a little lady needs (mainly candy). None the less the shoes I had to play with were not sparkly and they certainly were not designer. I know that in my lifetime shoes have become much more extravagant, but even today you won’t find many jewels, studs, feathers or bows on my mom’s heels.

It is easy to judge a woman on her shoes; you can look at her shoes to learn a lot about her lifestyle simply by checking out the height of her heel. The peek of a painted toe or the tip of a stiletto can show how much time a woman has to dedicate to her feet. Yet, growing up with a mom who did not go shoe crazy I have learned that sometimes you have to judge a woman by the shoes she doesn’t wear.

My mom’s shoes were not glamorous or expensive; they were the shoes of a woman with three little kids, a husband, a job and lots of errands to run. They were the shoes of someone who had to conquer the world each day and any challenges that might come along with it. If that meant snow or rain puddles, a run-a-way dog or sick child, even being an occasional field trip chaperone. It would be easy to say her shoes were simple everyday shoes… to stop there and say that’s all there were to her shoes.

The reality is that every pair of shoes that my mom didn’t buy was generally because there was something for her family that she needed to buy. Because my mom passed on the shoes with bows and feathers that cost more and would have taken money away from college funds and payments on braces said volumes. The shoes she didn’t wear because they would make her feet hurt and that would slow her down on a walk with us are what she should be judged on. The rare pair of evening heels showed that a night in reading bedtime stories was more enjoyable than a night out. At the end of the day slipping into a pair of house slippers was just as rewarding as slipping into a pair of Gucci stilettos.

My mother’s shoes may have never graced the pages of a glossy magazine. She probably couldn’t tell you the difference between a Dolce & Gabbana and a Dolce Vita, but she can tell you the name of every teacher we had in elementary school and what we wore for Halloween. And while her shoes are still not what most would call “high-end” they are still the first shoes I ever walked and dreamed in.

 

 
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