Why don’t you like my shoes?

Okay, this is stupid, but so many people (3) had nice things to say about the shoes that just barely appeared in my Why I Don’t Do WIWS post that I thought it would be fun to rerun this post from 2010, in which I debut my extremely cute white shoes, which I  bought on clearance at Target, and which I just wore this morning for this morning’s well dog excursion to the poop part of the yard. 

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I am not great with clothes shopping.  As I have mentioned before, shopping bundles together being fat and being old and being cheap into a tense, ugly ball of being miserable, effectively blotting out the pleasure of getting new stuff.

You’d think shoe shopping would be different–easier, simpler, less emotionally fraught.   You don’t even have to look in the mirror.  But somehow, I make it difficult.  I don’t know how it is, but all the shoes I come home with are just so dang stupid.

The one exception is what I was wearing today, when I took three kids for their well-child check ups.  I then drove three kids right back home again when seemingly-well child #3 threw up on previously-well children numbers 1 and 2 in the doctor’s parking lot.  Then I went to the supermarket to pick up something nice and bland for supper.  So here’s those shoes:

Moderately cute, aren’t they?  They’re fairly comfortable, they go click-click-click, which makes me feel brisk and capable, and they were only $3 at Target.  Believe it or not, these are my dressiest dress shoes, as well as my go-to footwear when dragging nauseated children around town.

Next, I present the shoes I actually squealed about (in my head) when I found that they were my size. They cost ten whole dollars.  For someone who generally shops at stores called things like “Ye Kingdom of Consign-a-lot,” these were a downright frivolous purchase.

Especially when I got home and remembered that I recently made another frivolous purchase:  a bright green purse.  To go with my bright red shoes.  Fa la la la la!

Next:  my comfortable, expensive sandals which do a good shoe’s job of making me forget that I’m wearing them:  my trusty old non-deluxe Tevas.

Or Teva, because I can only find one.

These next ones are the shoes I wore on my recent one-day hiking spree, because I couldn’t find my other Teva:

Can’t you see how malevolent they are?  I don’t know how they got into my house, but when I put them on, it looks like someone was angry at my feet.  “Take that!   Grrrrrrr, here’s some webbing with big, ugly stictching, and arrrrrr, here’s some rigid hunks of rubber.  I’ll teach you to have ten little toes and flexible skin!”  Worst blisters ever.  Seriously, they even made my eight-year-old son avert his eyes, and he really, really likes gross stuff.

Here is another shoe of mine.  I think you can see why it’s single:

I bet her partner never even took the time to see if she has a great personality.  Poor dear.  Now she’ll have to go join the shoe convent on the porch, where spinsters spend their lives praying for the soles of others.

And finally:

I guess these are shoes?  I don’t know.  Where did they come from, and how did they get so dirty?

My husband thinks I should also talk about my boots.  He doesn’t mean the black Gloria Vanderbilt shoe-boots I bought with a gift certificate 12 years ago. They look something like this:

except they have crescent-shaped toenail holes in the tops, because I can never find socks, and they are shaped less like footware and more like a pair of venerable potholders.  I like them because they are black.  Also, there are two of them, which matches my feet.

But it turns out my husband meant something he laughingly referred to as my “work boots.”  I don’t know what’s so damn funny about that.  I can’t take a picture of them, because I put them in a bag marked “Salv Army,” and I have to leave them in the back of the car for a few years before I can take them out and wear them again.

But you know what?  I have a problem here.  I bought a pair of shoes.  They are SO CUTE.  They are the cutiest, wootiest shoes you ever saw.  I wear them a lot, and they fit, they’re in season . . . I don’t know.  For some reason, I guess I halfway expect people to burst into applause whenever I walk up in them.  I mean, they have silver wingtip-style toe caps!  But, at the same time, they’re heelless for that carefree spring in your step in the happy, happy springtime!  But they have a nice big elastic band so they don’t fall off!  They are the perfect shoe.  Actually, they slide around a bit, but that is totally my fault, not the shoes’ fault.  My fault.

Just look at these shoes!

 

No?

Aw hell,  you wouldn’t understand.

  • http://lerheims.wordpress.com/ Bridget Green

    I totally get you with the clothes shopping thing. I hate shopping for clothing and have since I was a teenager and first started to develop and, still being the almost midget that I am, and not a stick figure, nothing fit. Now, I only enjoy maternity clothes shopping, since they are actually made for, I don’t know, women’s bodies, with like curves and stuff. But shoe shopping, oh how I love shoe shopping. They always fit, and if they don’t, it really is the shoes’ fault! Bad, bad shoes.

  • Peggy Bowes

    Oh Simcha! If I lived nearby I would pick you up, drive you to Nordstrom and buy you a pair of truly fabulous shoes!

  • anna lisa

    Aw Simcha, I jut confessed all my sins for Mercy Sunday, and now you bring up a reality I’d rather avert my eyes from. I thought my virtue had grown to a point of motherly restraint. Now I know the dark and ugly truth about my mottled little soul–. Given all the right conditions,I was/am quite guilty of shoe-vice. I’m a boot and shoe hog.
    But then, you know my husband works for one of the most fabulous shoe/boot/apparel companies in the world. What retails at Nordstrom for $1000, I get for ten cents on the dollar. When the company holds a sale for the employees, I go in with a giant laundry hamper. The downside is that I’m simply ruined for good old American shopping.
    Oh, but you know what’s really funny? I have an old pair of pointy pink and brown pumps that I bought at Payless almost a decade ago that make even the shoe snobs rave about in admiration.
    lol, I agree about Teva.

    • Peggy Bowes

      Now I have to go to Confession because I’m coveting your Nordstrom shoe discount…

      • anna lisa

        Haha. I wanted to say that it’s not so great, but then I’d have to go to confession too. What’s really fun, more fun than going to a store like Nordstrom, (Nordstrom is one of their top accounts), is going to the company wide sale for employees. They even sell the clothes the models wore on the runways, beautiful prototypes, and rival brands of shoes, purses and clothing that the designers were analyzing. A lot of that stuff ends up in a big $5 or $10 pile. It’s like a Thrift store in heaven. But like I said–I’m now ruined for real shopping, and my husband couldn’t be more pleased.

        • Peggy Bowes

          Will our resurrected bodies need Nordstrom shoes? ; )

  • Mrs. Amen

    Yes to shopping bundling being fat, old and cheap. And I’ve recently lost 50lbs, am *only* 38, but am still cheap. My mom bought me new shoes for my birthday in November. We trudged off to DSW, her adorable and stylish, me 8 months pregnant with feet that looked 18 months pregnant. The sight of my feet made me long for my usual problems of being fat, old, cheap, not at all trendy and needing a size 11W. Because pregnancy makes my feet even size 11er and W-er. Anyhow, I picked out a cute pair of camouflage ballet flats. Then at Christmas my hot, single and wealthy sister gave me a pair of 5 inch wedge heeled brown leather knee high boots by some fancy designer. I can assure you that they go really well with my post-maternity wardrobe and my brand spanking new nipple shields. So, including my 7 year old Sketchers (pink and fushia), I now have 2 pair of shoes I can actually wear.

  • MeanLizzie

    Holy crap, Simcha, those are some ugly shoes. But I can’t talk. I wore crocs to the Vatican. :-)


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