Of Imelda Marcos and Other Masochists

From a young age, my father called me "Imelda Marcos"--first lady of the Philippines notorious for her excessive shoe collection.

I wouldn't say I have a shoe fetish. Not at all. But I like them, a lot. It's not like I'd commit tax fraud to buy shoes! But, I do admit to a somewhat reckless purchase of late. Yes, it's true; I spent eighty dollars on shoes. Beautiful strappy wedges that make me feel like Grace Kelly. Lovely shoes that I catch other women admiring on the street. Shoes that make me a little taller. Shoes that are a dark enough shade of brown to go with brown OR black (yes, it's true Lyla).

Sigh.

So if I'm so happy, what's the problem?

Well, in addition to all of the above they were also comfortable. I wore them to do groceries and I wore them while carrying the groceries up four flights of stairs--without a bit of a problem. I felt that for the first time I understood Donna Reed vacuuming in heels. Alas, I was deceived.

Yesterday, after a light sushi dinner, L suggested ice cream.

If there's anything I like more than nice shoes, it's ice cream.

Although there are at least two ice cream places within three blocks of our home (dangerous, eh?), we decided on DQ Blizzards. Moreover, we decided to walk from Broadway to Campus Drive for blizzards. At the time, this seemed like a great idea. What could be better than a long walk on a lovely summer evening? We would walk under the trees and peek into peoples houses--and get bitten by mosquitoes. Ah. The good life.

And what did I have to fear? I'd been wearing my glorious shoes (comparable in their divinity only to my glorious winter boots) for an entire week. I'd worn them for lounging, for walking, and for hard labor.

So, we began the thirty minute walk. We discussed life and mosquitoes. It was entirely pleasant.
But then, somewhere around University Drive and 14th, I realized my feet were actually, really and truly hurting.

But the promise of an oreo blizzard was too great to give up on because of a little pain. So we marched on. And friends, the pain only worsened. By the time we reached Dairy Queen, I was starting to limp a bit, but I was sure that sitting down to a nice ice cream would be just the thing to give me strength for the half-hour walk home.

It wasn't.

On the walk home, not only were the balls of my feet supporting my entire weight, but I fancied I could FEEL blisters developing. Slowly rubbing their way to the surface; gloating in their chaffed glory. But this I could manage. What woman in our sick society that encourages us to wear these shoes has not had to walk with blisters on her feet? Why, I remember that I once used an artfully placed gum wrapper to mitigate the pain of a blister on yet another pair of beautiful shoes (those were a pair of black patent leather mary janes with a two-inch heel--they were beautiful and I was much younger).

But it got worse still. Soon, the strappy bits daintily encircling my ankles began to pinch and then to cut my skin.

Like you, L wondered why I didn't just take the damn things off and walk barefoot on the sidewalk. I wish I could have, but I can't. I just can't do that. I come from a part of the world where, as the saying goes, simply wearing shoes gives you the right to be called: Doctora. It's true. I have never--EVER--walked barefoot outside (except by a pool or on a beach). Unfortunately, I've been effectively conditioned.

So, by the time I arrived at my fourth floor apartment I could hardly walk on any part of my feet. L brought me a tub of warm water with Manitou Salts (finally, they came in handy) for my feet to soak in. That helped a bit, but I remained in pain all night and am only just beginning to recover the full use of my most necessary appendages.

So, the question is: what will become of the shoes? Will I give them to charity for some other poor soul to suffer their deceptive comfort? Or will I wear those dread shoes again?

As I'm sure Imelda would say, the answer is: Yes, I'll wear them again, just as soon as my feet heal, baby.