Two completely unrelated and most precious friends gave me the plaque and the coffee cup bearing the very same message. Both items read, “Life is Short Buy the Shoes.” They know me pretty well. Shoes are one of my passions. They don’t have to be expensive, they don’t have to be designer-labeled, they don’t even have to be faddish or popular—they just have to be special.
Here are my criteria: They have to look good on my feet—that’s where I tend to wear them most of the time. They have to make me happy. They cannot hurt to walk in. And if I can find them at a deep discount, I’m in heaven!
The genesis of most passions (some would say obsessions) can usually be traced to childhood. I surmise mine stems from the wretched pair of Robin’s Egg Blue (#29 in the big box of Crayola crayons) patent leather, half-inch Mary Janes I wore on the first day of school in the second grade. They were hideous. Oh, the kids on the playground had a field day with those. Even worse? From the cavernous recesses of my mind, I think I may have picked them out. Aaaack! It’s easier to blame my mother.
Anyway, I think that was ground zero, both in my abysmal taste and my determination to have pretty shoes for the rest of my life. So far I have. My greatest regret is I didn’t realize early on there were professional shoe repairers, and I got rid of my ecru-linen pumps. I still mourn them.
Over time, my taste has improved, and my passion and collection has grown to challenge closets and spousal units. So be it. I’m not addicted. I can pass a shoe store and not go in. I can peruse a catalog and still not buy. And while a strappy, glass-heeled slipper can still make my mouth water, I’m not ready for rehab yet.
As far as I know, my guilty pleasure doesn’t harm me, offend others, or impact my carbon footprints, and the ones I leave behind will be gorgeous—with a three-inch heel.