Maybe it’s true that “clothes make the man,” but I can tell you, shoes un-make the woman!
In fact, it seems that a woman isn’t really dressed up unless she’s completely uncomfortable.
I went to a fancy dinner recently and discovered that my shoes were unbearable. And that was just in the first 10 minutes.
Everyone was out on the balcony, watching the sun go down. It was a beautiful sunset — or so they thought.
“Isn’t that gorgeous?” gushed one of the guests.
“There’s a new one every day,” I replied.
“But this one’s truly spectacular, especially with the rays streaking through the clouds like that. Don’t you agree?”
“If you say so,” I snapped. Then — realizing that my attitude needed adjusting, I walked over to the bar. Or rather, I hobbled there.
“Judy!” The bartender knew me. “Surely you’re too young to have such terrible arthritis!”
“You’re right; I don’t have arthritis,” I answered. But when he asked me, “Then what is the matter?” I had no idea.
I decided I’d better take inventory, starting from the top down:
Was it a headache? No. Sore throat? No. Was I too hungry? Too hot or too cold? No, no, no. Then I looked down.
It was my feet! They were radiating so much misery up through the rest of my body, not even a perfectly mixed Margarita could get my attention. I wanted to cut my poor feet right off!
Instead, I did the next best thing: I kicked my shoes across the room.
The relief was immediate. “Oh, I feel human again!”
But my husband had a question: “Judy, I hope you saw where they went? Because I don’t think I can carry you across that gravel parking lot back to the car!”
My gallant knight. “Don’t worry.” Never mind gravel, I’d walk barefoot over burning coals before I put those shoes on again.
I had spent a lot for them, too.
“Throw them into the Sound!” one of the partygoers urged me. I was tempted — but it would have been classified as pollution.
I might be turning into the crazy aunt whose dress seems perfectly elegant above the knee, but who from the ankles down is in nurse’s shoes.
That’s all right; nurses are smart cookies! Just put me in the second row for pictures, where no one can see my feet; at least I’ll be smiling!
It makes me think about the Oscars, coming up in just a few weeks. The women striding down the red carpet are surely the best actresses in the world, to be able to walk the length of that gauntlet, in instruments of torture…and smiling!
If it were me, I would hope against hope that no pesky reporter asks me to stop and answer a question: “Who are you wearing?”
“Torquemada.”
“Oh — is he Spanish?”
“Yes — from the Inquisition. Oh look, It’s a grizzly bear, coming straight for Meryl Streep!” And while they all turn around, I’d take off my shoes and sprint for my seat inside. (The bear only wants Meryl’s autograph, anyway!)
It’s so much easier for the men. Everything they wear is cut to whatever size they happen to be; and nobody says, “Wow, flats? With those pants? What was he thinking?”
“Well, what about neck ties?” my husband reminds me.
“Yes indeed, what about them? They’re mildly uncomfortable — if you’ve lied to your wife about your true neck size when she’s buying you shirts. As for the rest of your outfit — does it cripple you? No? I didn’t think so!”
The only fancy shoes I’ve ever envied were the Ruby Slippers from the Wizard of Oz. Apparently, they magically fit whoever is wearing them, whether you’re a little girl from Kansas, or a wicked witch.
But poor Cinderella! All she got were some glass slippers. No wonder she left one behind, when she ran from the ball. She never wanted to see those things again! I can just imagine her face when the Prince showed up at her house: “Did you forget this?”
“Oh, no, I’ll never forget — I mean, I’ve never seen them. Now please, move on to my ugly stepsisters before I smash that thing with a broom!”
