Shoe Fetish

A week ago I took a good look. My favorite Frye boots were getting pretty worn at the heels.  That meant an emergency visit to Dan, my talented shoe doctor at Broadway Shoe Repair.

“How ya doin’, Hon?” he greeted me.  “What’s up with the boots?”

He knew, you see.

“The heels seem shot.  Better take a look,” I told him.

“Yep, you need new ones.”

“Do I need new soles, too?”

“Nope.”

“Okay.  When I can I have them back?”

“Not until after Christmas, Hon.”

My face fell.

“Really?  That long?  I love these boots,” I sighed.

“Yeah, I know, but there’s nothing I can do about it.  I’m slammed.”  He shook his head.

“Here you go.”  And I reluctantly passed them over and bid my boots adios for two very long weeks.

As he handed me my ticket, Dan had an afterthought.

“Hey, what’s your cell phone number? I’ll text you if they’re done any sooner.”

“Great!”  And I gave him my number.

The next day Dan called.

“The boots are ready, Hon.  Come and get ’em.”

Sweet!  Dan is The Man.

(And he had no idea that I was going to write this.  Letter From Elba has not made it on to his must-read list.  Yet.)

You see it’s not like I don’t have any other boots or shoes to wear.  I do.  It’s just that I am slightly obsessed with footwear.

My footwear to be exact.

I never de-accession them.  I keep ALL of my shoes and boots in perfect, pristine, ready-to-boogie condition.

It goes back to my childhood, I think.  I wear a size four and a half shoe. Having a small foot might have been a very big deal back in Ming Dynasty China, but it was the very big bane of my North Shore Dynasty existence.

As a pre-teen, of course I dreamed of Dexter penny loafers, Bass Weejuns and saddle shoes like pre-teen girls everywhere. But to no avail.  I could never find shoes to fit me.  Every time my mother took me to the shoe store, (with one of those X-ray-your-feet machines and cut-outs on the walls of Buster Brown and his dog, Tige) the beleaguered salesman would measure my foot in that silver Brannock device thingy and sadly shake his head.

“Nope, they don’t make loafers that small.  You’re going to have to wear an adult size.  Next year.  Maybe.”

But next year never came.

My feet refused to cooperate, and so even today, finding cool shoes that actually fit becomes a treasure hunt.

And when I find ’em, I never let them out of my sight.  Not if I can help it.

Moving Van Sidebar:  In my relo from Colorado to Chicago, after the packing crate dust cleared in my new apartment, I was struck by a horrible thought.  Where was the box that contained my nifty, over-the-knee black suede, flat-heeled Arche boots?  I didn’t remember seeing it.

(It also contained my black and white tiny polka-dotted suede Diego Della Valle kitten heels and super chic Roger Vivier pumps with gold balls at the back of their heels.)

I tore through the house and then called the moving company with my frantic shoe S.O.S.

But to no avail.  The shoes are permanently AWOL.  Alas.

Back to the shoe counter…

Even with that tragic loss, I’ve still got plenty of footwear that I dote on.  Like this honey of a pink and ruby slipper.

 

These neon lime green ones are fun.

See the padding?  Even after two kids, my feet still refused to grow. Size five seems to be the smallest I can find.  So most of my shoes have to be stuffed so that they will stay on.

So when I find something great, I just stick with it.  To me, there’s no such thing as “old shoe.”

I did some counting.  My Frye boots are thirty-five years old.  Sold to me by Joe Cotten of the old Joseph’s shoe store in Old Orchard.

If I don’t have to be dressed to the nines, I wear them every day.  They get me around town speedily, comfortably, and make me just tall enough to hold my head up high.  I’d be lost without them.

So thanks for the quick turnaround, Dan.

Here’s to another thirty-five years,

Hon.