OK. Straight down to business. As a
female I love shoes.
What is it about women and shoes?
Well, this is my theory. Feet aren't like the rest of our body. They don't really get fat. No matter what perfectly shaped, or misshapen form they carry aloft, feet are fairly free from obesity.
Yes, the uppers can get pudgy, but I bet you'll never see feet that have grown fat sideways. Well, I haven't, yet.
And so a girl can treat her feet to shoes that even a super-model could wear. Until she gets a bunion.
As a teen and well into my twenties I could comfortably teeter around on a pair of four-inch heels all day. This caused my mother to proffer dire warnings that I'd ruin my feet. The fact is, they deteriorate anyway, and I decided that I'd wear high heels as long was able to. I would walk uphill and down all day on the University campus where I was studying. I remember a particularly gorgeous pair of pale yellow high-heeled sandals with platform soles. Thirty-years later I still remember those shoes fondly.
Back on the home front, and much earlier than my teen years, my mother would often look at my feet, tut-tut and tell me that a doctor once told her that she had the most perfect feet he had ever seen. (I swear she would repeat this story at least once a year.) She would also state with confidence that I would get bunions. She was wrong. I only got one.
I am now, at fifty-something and finding it a push to last in three-inch heels all day. But, and this is a big but, it's not because of the bunion; my feet as a whole just complain. The bunion doesn't hurt at all; not one bit.
No, the problem with the blasted bunion is that it's ugly. I love high-heel sandals but these days as I look down at my right foot from aloft, the mighty protrusion sticks out from the side of a strappy shoe as if it is a State trying to secede from a nation; as if to break off to become an island or peninsula. On top of this ignominy, the big toe above it is turning sideways as if to wave it good-bye.
Basically the bunion is starting to deform the big toe and the other toes are following suit. In order to fix a bunion, a surgeon must break the bone, or bones or whatever makes up a bunion, remove the calcification and reset what's left. Then the foot is encased in a cast for six weeks.
Apparently it is painful for both the foot and the person to whom it is attached. It also means not being able to work. This would be a plus is I had money. But even if I did, I could scarcely use the time to sashay around Europe or the Greek Isles. Also if I was to go by plane I'd probably have to pay for the cast as excess baggage: "I'm sorry, you can't take that foot on board with you, it will have to go in the luggage hold."
I am not in a rush to have this operation for the sake of vanity; not yet. Until that time I am not prepared to inflict the sight of my pedal prominence on the world, and so I must now buy shoes that are more enclosed. This brings with it a whole other problem in that the bunion attempts to force its way out of the casing. After two months, the shoe will appear considerably wider than its opposite on the other foot. The bunion will then victoriously break free, splitting the side of the shoe open, not at the seam, but by tearing through the leather or whatever material stands in its way.
The bunion does not just grow sideways. It bulges downwards too. The bottom of the tragic shoe will also wear through. I was walking one day in the rain only to find water seeping into my shoe through the bottom. I hadn't noticed there was a hole in the sole. It's a bit like being the Titanic, only the iceberg strikes from within.
This leads me to shoe buying. This should be a happy occasion but, as we women know, you may set out with heart aflutter and with visions ecstatic. We may lust at the sight of row upon row of artfully laid out leather, patent and polymer temptation, all under spotlights that make colours luscious and shines shinier. Then, having been as vigilant and patient as a hunter, having lassoed, harpooned or netted one of those rare and hard to find, almost extinct creatures - a salesperson - the fun starts.
You send him or her off with three or more samples of shoes to try on, having stated your size and colour preference. Some time passes (often as long as it would take you to do your yearly tax return) and the salesperson returns with variations on your theme: "The brand you have chosen in this one is quite a small make and rather narrow and the colour you want is not available in a larger size." You are told that your next choice is a brand that is a generous fit: "No we don't have a smaller size, perhaps you could wear an insert to pad it out." What about the last shoe? "Well this is the last one, unfortunately no one can find its partner; we think it may have been stolen."
One day I hit pay dirt. There they were, a lovely pair of shoes on sale and I mean cheap. Why? Because the last box contained two shoes of different sizes: one was an 8, the other 8 1/2. The right shoe was the bigger shoe. They fitted me perfectly. Somewhere out there is my opposite. If only I could find her: a woman with a bunion on her left foot; a woman with the same taste as me. Think what we could achieve together!
Oh how I would love to shop for shoes on-line: so many shoes, so many choices. Alas, until I find my alter-bunion-ego, I cannot. Mostly I return from a shoe shopping exercise shoeless apart from the ones I was wearing when I left the house. Once home I head straight for the fridge and try out a bottle of wine for size.
What is it about women and shoes?
Well, this is my theory. Feet aren't like the rest of our body. They don't really get fat. No matter what perfectly shaped, or misshapen form they carry aloft, feet are fairly free from obesity.
Yes, the uppers can get pudgy, but I bet you'll never see feet that have grown fat sideways. Well, I haven't, yet.
And so a girl can treat her feet to shoes that even a super-model could wear. Until she gets a bunion.
As a teen and well into my twenties I could comfortably teeter around on a pair of four-inch heels all day. This caused my mother to proffer dire warnings that I'd ruin my feet. The fact is, they deteriorate anyway, and I decided that I'd wear high heels as long was able to. I would walk uphill and down all day on the University campus where I was studying. I remember a particularly gorgeous pair of pale yellow high-heeled sandals with platform soles. Thirty-years later I still remember those shoes fondly.
Back on the home front, and much earlier than my teen years, my mother would often look at my feet, tut-tut and tell me that a doctor once told her that she had the most perfect feet he had ever seen. (I swear she would repeat this story at least once a year.) She would also state with confidence that I would get bunions. She was wrong. I only got one.
I am now, at fifty-something and finding it a push to last in three-inch heels all day. But, and this is a big but, it's not because of the bunion; my feet as a whole just complain. The bunion doesn't hurt at all; not one bit.
No, the problem with the blasted bunion is that it's ugly. I love high-heel sandals but these days as I look down at my right foot from aloft, the mighty protrusion sticks out from the side of a strappy shoe as if it is a State trying to secede from a nation; as if to break off to become an island or peninsula. On top of this ignominy, the big toe above it is turning sideways as if to wave it good-bye.
Basically the bunion is starting to deform the big toe and the other toes are following suit. In order to fix a bunion, a surgeon must break the bone, or bones or whatever makes up a bunion, remove the calcification and reset what's left. Then the foot is encased in a cast for six weeks.
Apparently it is painful for both the foot and the person to whom it is attached. It also means not being able to work. This would be a plus is I had money. But even if I did, I could scarcely use the time to sashay around Europe or the Greek Isles. Also if I was to go by plane I'd probably have to pay for the cast as excess baggage: "I'm sorry, you can't take that foot on board with you, it will have to go in the luggage hold."
I am not in a rush to have this operation for the sake of vanity; not yet. Until that time I am not prepared to inflict the sight of my pedal prominence on the world, and so I must now buy shoes that are more enclosed. This brings with it a whole other problem in that the bunion attempts to force its way out of the casing. After two months, the shoe will appear considerably wider than its opposite on the other foot. The bunion will then victoriously break free, splitting the side of the shoe open, not at the seam, but by tearing through the leather or whatever material stands in its way.
The bunion does not just grow sideways. It bulges downwards too. The bottom of the tragic shoe will also wear through. I was walking one day in the rain only to find water seeping into my shoe through the bottom. I hadn't noticed there was a hole in the sole. It's a bit like being the Titanic, only the iceberg strikes from within.
This leads me to shoe buying. This should be a happy occasion but, as we women know, you may set out with heart aflutter and with visions ecstatic. We may lust at the sight of row upon row of artfully laid out leather, patent and polymer temptation, all under spotlights that make colours luscious and shines shinier. Then, having been as vigilant and patient as a hunter, having lassoed, harpooned or netted one of those rare and hard to find, almost extinct creatures - a salesperson - the fun starts.
You send him or her off with three or more samples of shoes to try on, having stated your size and colour preference. Some time passes (often as long as it would take you to do your yearly tax return) and the salesperson returns with variations on your theme: "The brand you have chosen in this one is quite a small make and rather narrow and the colour you want is not available in a larger size." You are told that your next choice is a brand that is a generous fit: "No we don't have a smaller size, perhaps you could wear an insert to pad it out." What about the last shoe? "Well this is the last one, unfortunately no one can find its partner; we think it may have been stolen."
One day I hit pay dirt. There they were, a lovely pair of shoes on sale and I mean cheap. Why? Because the last box contained two shoes of different sizes: one was an 8, the other 8 1/2. The right shoe was the bigger shoe. They fitted me perfectly. Somewhere out there is my opposite. If only I could find her: a woman with a bunion on her left foot; a woman with the same taste as me. Think what we could achieve together!
Oh how I would love to shop for shoes on-line: so many shoes, so many choices. Alas, until I find my alter-bunion-ego, I cannot. Mostly I return from a shoe shopping exercise shoeless apart from the ones I was wearing when I left the house. Once home I head straight for the fridge and try out a bottle of wine for size.
END
UPDATE: This post was written almost ten years ago. I now have two bunions and have mostly resorted to flat shoes. I still refuse to have an operation as I'm not in pain.
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