I know, I know – women love shoes.  It’s been over three decades and they’re still making Imelda Marcos jokes.  Let’s face it, women like shoe shopping because it does not require looking in a full-length, three-panel mirror, in the harsh, critical light of the try-on room.  You can gain twenty pounds, and your shoe size won’t change.  Shoes are a sure thing.

Contrary to popular belief, shoes are not a mere accessory, like the common scarf or the utilitarian purse because shoes transcend.  Like DNA, shoes are the building block of the whole wardrobe – even more so than the dress – because shoes possess a certain power that only some women understand, and nearly all men fall prey to, at one time or another.  Shoes send subliminal messages.  What does a brown loafer say?  A sensible, low-heeled navy pump?  A red pump with stiletto heels?

There’s more to a shoe than its toe, body, or heel.  Like just about everything in this world – it’s all in the details.  Straps matter.  And any shoe that shows off the toes (and a fresh pedicure) commands a certain amount of respect.  Then there’s toe cleavage, an amazing phenomenon that occurs when the shoe is low-cut enough to reveal the magical little spot where the toes emerge from the body of the foot.  It is a smart woman, indeed, who speaks to a man with her shoes.  And it’s a lucky man who listens.

I maintain that shoes (scarpe in Italian) are works of art, and should be treated as such.  Just as a dedicated art collector hunts for that obscure masterpiece, a gal on a shoe shopping expedition must seek out shoes that are truly unique, and therefore foot-noteworthy.

Here’s a thought:  Could it be that my deep understanding and appreciation of shoes has anything to do with the fact that my ancestors all came from a country that’s shaped exactly like a boot?