Shoe Confessions: Barbie Did It

We were out shopping last Wednesday night for shoes and clothing at the new Kohl's in town.

Shopping, as in "let's go to a store and buy some stuff," is something we never do. But Warren has a national conference to attend next week and needed some new slacks and a shirt.

As for me, I have worn my shoes - what we used to call "tennis shoes" until everything in the sports shoes arena got compartmentalized - to the nubs. Truly: all of the tread is gone and I only have that weird support structure, much like the underside of a futuristic bridge, holding up my heels and ankles. I walk a lot (a whole lot) and insofar as my discomfort has increased proportionally to the wear pattern, I felt a strong imperative to get some new shoes for walking.

Something to know about me: I am not a reformed shop-a-holic. I am not a shopper, period. I have never enjoyed shopping for clothing or "accessories." (I don't accessorize well.) As a result, I tend to avoid shopping like the plague.

I also don't collect shoes. Not counting the two pairs of flip-flops I own, one of which is five or six years old and both of which cost less than $1.50 each, I own only six pairs of shoes, not counting the aforementioned worn out pair. All of them, except for the walking shoes, are four or more years old.

My shoe shopping tends to be very fast. I have three criteria. How much do they cost? How heavy are they? Are my feet comfortable? What they look like is largely irrelevant, which is how I ended up with Avia running shoes with what can only be called lavender accents. (Not a color I would choose under any other circumstances, trust me.)

I was done with shoe shopping in ten minutes. If I hadn't tried on the pair of Nikes, it would have been five. Pretty impressive, no?

But I have a confession. Money issues aside, if I could wear high heels (which I can't and won't), I would own them in every color and height imaginable.

Blame it on Barbie.

My first Barbie was a bubble-cut redhead with those amazingly tiny warped Barbie feet, not unlike the feet of Chinese women back when binding was socially acceptable. Her shoes were open-toed, red stiletto heels, curved exactly like her foot.

I was fascinated with the arch and curve of both her foot and the shoe. They made an indelible impression on me. To this day, if I am doodling, those stiletto Barbie heels show up somewhere on the paper. On those rare occasions I am in a department store, I always glance over at the shoes. Shiny yellow patent leather spikes! Wouldn't those be fun?

I gave up high heels (defined by me as anything over an inch) after wearing them for the first time back in junior high school. Even in an era when I kept a log of everything I wore to school so I didn't repeat outfits "too soon" (don't laugh - you'd be surprised how many of us did that), I quickly realized that I had neither the balance nor the pain tolerance for any type of high heel, let alone stilettos. I never wavered from that decision. Since moving to Cancerland, I now have peripheral neuropathy in my feet, which makes wearing even my lone pair of modestly heeled dress shoes uncomfortable, so higher heels are truly a lost cause.

Fortunately, I now have a stepdaughter who loves shoes and can wear heels with the best of them. Being out with Elizabeth gives me an excuse to dawdle in shoe departments when she talks us into taking her to a mall. On a recent trip to Chicago, she and I waltzed through the Michigan Avenue Neiman Marcus and breathed in the heady fragrance of the Manolo Blahniks. I look forward to some great vicarious shoe experiences through Elizabeth.

If you see me out and about most days, I'll be wearing either flip-flops or my sports shoes, comfortable as all get out. There'll likely be a smile on my face, a song in my heart, and a pair of six inch, ruby red heels in my dreams.