Tag Archives: Cinderella

L—-OWWWW—-BOUTAINS?

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I’m a shoe freak. The only thing Imelda Marcos had over me was more resources, like the treasury of the Philippines. This debilitating disease began in 9th grade. My Mom suggested that if I wanted those adorable spats made of burlap and burgundy patent leather, I would have to get a job. Money has never been a motivator for me…but shoes…oh yeah, I’d get three jobs for the perfect pair of shoes.

The purchase of those spats was like a first kiss. The love affair began. See, my high school girlfriends were the quintessential little 5-7-9’s of the ’70’s. I was not. But my feet, oh my feet were double A Narrow with Quad A Narrow heels. Yes, my feet were skinny!!! I could buy shoes, shoes and more shoes and they would fit. They would flatter. My feet in my shoes were the Twiggy of toes. Sometimes it felt illicit, other times just downright exhilaratingly perfect.

So on my daughter’s wedding day, when the bride presented me with a hat box the size of a turkey platter filled with a magical pair of Christian Louboutin’s, rouged underside and all, I was beyond excited. My other daughter, who inherited the shoe gene, was found in a corner sniffing the Louboutin’s like airplane glue.

But the shoes didn’t fit. Off to Neiman Marcus we journeyed to exchange those black pumps of pleasure for a pair perfect for my pedicure. Alas, Louboutins are not for every foot. My precious feet, who had served me well for so many years as the thinnest most easily fashioned part of my Italian-Slavic heritage, failed me like the ugly step-sisters of Cinderella. I  would not be undone.

The salesman, Walter, dressed in a pin-striped suit with perfectly matching lavender tie and pocket square, was very careful to bring me the size I requested. It felt like my banker was kneeling at my feet. I know it was absurd, but the two teenagers next to me with 20 boxes of Louboutins opened around them, made me shove those tight ass shoes onto what were now my apparent barge feet, even harder.  It occurred to me that perhaps I needed a larger size. This wasn’t like the mother-of-the-bride dress. I had no problem asking for a bigger pair of shoes. Apparently, this is a refreshing concept to Walter. In this hallowed shoe boutique, a salesman would never suggest to the lady that she may need a (gasp) larger size! The look of relief on Walter’s face when I said perhaps a 9, rather than my usual 8 and a half would do better, was like giving him early parole.

Hmmm. I guess I’m  not the only one who likes to think my skinny feet are the most alluring part of me.

We chose a pair, a beautiful pair. But not without suffering. These shoes hurt. The chosen pair hurt less than every other pair. But still. Walter assured me that if I don’t wear them, I can return the shoes 10 years from now.

I called my genetic shoe clone daughter. Her advice was that there are legions of blog posts dedicated to how to tape my toes and wear Louboutins in spite of themselves. I adopted the Louboutins but they may go back to the orphanage.

Today the bride and I went to the SAS shoe outlet. (Senior’s Attire Sucks). Okay, it stands for San Antonio Shoes. And they’re ridiculously comfortable and ugly. My Mom made me take her there last year. She ‘bribed’ me by telling me she would buy me a pair of shoes. Ha! Ugly expensive shoes? Who would wear those? I am not eighty yet. I am still capable of making a fashion statement. And there they were, black patent leather loafers with a red penny holder and red soles. Oh….my…..God…. They were adorable and super comfortable. Well, I”m not 20 anymore either. Yeah, I got those shoes last year. But I didn’t want to fall into the black whole of old lady shoes, did I?

Louboutin 2But my Louboutins?!?!?!?

The red patent leather sandals from SAS (Style and Sass…that’s my new name for them) are going to France with me next week. The Louboutins, which say “Paris” right on the inside of the shoe are still waiting to see if they are Orphan Annie or Oliver Twist……to be continued….

“You Just have to Laugh…..”

©Cathy Sikorski 2016

“What do women want? Shoes.” Mimi Pond

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In honor of what would have been my mother-in-law’s 98th birthday, a shoe story comes to mind.

About 2 years ago, Marie got very, very ill. She was in intensive care for a few weeks. Between an infection in her big toe and dangerously low body temperature, she was in a precarious place. The conversation vacillated between surgery to remove her toe, foot or part of her leg and just seeing how she would fare at 96 years old.  (I know, when does this get funny?)

She miraculously recovered with the help of a ‘bear hug’ which is like super groovy bubble wrap that keeps you warm and brings up your body temp. And in other news, her toe took care of itself by just falling off. I know, it’s gross and horrible, but it was just the tip and the infection was then completely out of her system.

Because walking was kind of weird now, Marie had to wear special surgical shoes and regain control of her balance. She was hustled home from the hospital with peculiar shoes and instructions for physical therapy.

Her first day home, I visited her during therapy and she was quite agile and perky. I returned the next day and since it was a weekend, there was no therapy. Sitting in her  chair, she was wearing her favorite sneakers.

“Oh, no, no, Marie, that will not do,” I said.  “You need to wear the other shoes until your foot is healed and you can walk properly.”

“What other shoes?” she said. “These are my shoes.”

I wasn’t born  yesterday. In five minutes, I was hauling out the ugly, black orthopedic surgical shoes that were somehow conveniently stuffed way in the back of her closet behind suitcases and Depends packages, I displayed to her the offending footwear.

“This is what you need to wear while your foot heals.”

“Ugh,” she muttered.

Two days later, I moseyed back to the therapy room and there she ambled in the ugly shoes, but her pristine sneakers sat lovingly next to the walker waiting to be put back on Cinderella’s pining feet.

The therapist took me aside.

“She insisted on wearing her real shoes, except in therapy. It’s really not good for healing or balance. Maybe you can talk to her.”

I devised a different plan. Whilst she meandered all around the therapy room, I snatched the glass slippers like an ugly step-sister and hid them deep in the therapy room closet.

I was well versed in diversion by now and spirited her so quickly to lunch after therapy that she forgot about those sneakers. After lunch we strolled outside and then I settled her in her favorite chair for a post-repast siesta.

For the next four weeks, every time I visited Marie, she asked me the same question:

“Where did Rachel put my shoes?”

Rachel is my daughter. She had been known to play a practical joke or two on Grandma over the years. When she was a youngster, Rachel would steal Grandma’s refrigerator magnets and return them a few weeks later. One time she asked Grandma if it was ok to ‘look’ at  Grandma’s costume jewelry. That Easter, Grandma admired her own necklace around Rachel’s neck. However, at the time of this shoe incident, Rachel was firmly ensconced in graduate school in Ireland.

“Rachel, did not take your shoes, Marie. You have to wear these other ones to get better.”

“Yes, she did. Tell her I want them back.”

Simultaneously with her complete recovery, Rachel came home for a visit. When she came to see Grandma, there she was holding the shoes out like Prince Charming. What the heck….whatever works when you’re a  caregiver.

“You just have to Laugh….”

Cathy Sikorski