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?