I hate my feet. Anyone who’s seen my bare feet hate my feet. Pedicurists hate me, because , much as as John Singer Sargent or Ingres might have felt when they had to make a sitter look better-looking, they know it’s demeaning to their abilities.
Can I mention my ginormous bunions? Pythagoras could have used them to demonstrate the right angle triangle. I had budding bunions when I was thirteen, thanks to a sublime pair of red Brevett loafers. Do you have any idea how hard and expensive it is to buy a comfortable and chic pair of shoes when your feet are double-wide? I’ve given mucho money to Munro, and I’m still wearing their footwear, pretty well in tatters, fifteen years after I spent four weeks grocery money at Bloomingdales.
(Speaking of Bloomies, I got the one unsolicited compliment I cherish most there. A saleslady ran up behind me and yelled “Ma’am! Ma’am! You have the most perfect nose I’ve ever seen!” If you’ve heard me tell this story, forgive me. I cherish that memory on a bad feet day . That would be every day.)
My daughter gave me the best Mother’s Day ever this year — a flight to LA, a trip up the coast to Cambria and Hearst Castle. She had to work a few days while we were there, so we spent some time afoot. Anyone who thinks that Los Angeles is all about the car is misinformed. We walked her hood in Los Feliz Village, tramped through a few museums, and her tour of deep downtown LA. She took us up the coast to Solvang (hello, “Sideways” fans) and Cambria. And then Hearst Castle — a walking tour.
My friend Dave had warned me: “Beware all enterprises that require new shoes.” I should have listened. I dropped a bundle on two pairs of cute shoes that felt good in the store. You know what happened: blood and blisters. My daughter lent me her better-traveled-than-I Birkie sandals. They’d stomped through rice paddies in Vietnam, and strolled Thailand, Cambodia and Hong Kong. The support was great, but they raised new blisters in different places.
I was wincing and considering going barefoot on Sunset, when I said: “Sorry. I don’t care that you hate resale stores . I’m buying a pair of shoes. “
$1.99, Baby! Silver leather. A sole as thin as a sheet of vellum –useless for walking on anything larger than a poolside patio in 90210, but they got me home, and my neighbor Char said nice things about them yesterday.
You can see that I never removed the sticky price tag stuff, but, c’mon, 1.99! These are not Jimmy Chos. These are not Birkenstocks. These are for sure not Munros. But, they don’t actively hurt my feet and I feel a tad glam on my kitchen floor and my garden. I love silver leather.
Thing is, they’re the best pair of knock around the house shoes ever. I’d never take them farther than a walk to the mailbox, but on doubtful kitchen floors or on grass, they are sooooo perfect. When I slip them on I feel glammer than flip flop aficionados. They are, in these restricted circumstances, the best 1.99 I’ve ever spent. I’ve almost broken in those two pairs of cute Spanish expensive shoes I bought for the trip, but as God is my witness, I’ll never pack new shoes again.