My Life in Shoes

We All Have Shoe Stories

I have a blurred edge memory of laying on my back in my crib banging the bar between my shoes against the rails. My stiff white baby shoes were connected to each other by a flat metal bar screwed into their soles. This torturous device was commonly used in the 60s to hold a child’s feet at a specific angle to, in my case anyway, correct feet that rolled inward.

This is the earliest memory I have involving shoes. You’d think it would have soured me on shoes in general, but you’d be wrong. Instead, I think it was the flicker of a spark that led to a lifelong, if not fascination, at least interest in what I put on my feet.

A woman’s relationship with shoes starts early. There’s only a small window of time where they exist as practical protective covering for the feet and nothing more. This is partly the fault of fairytales.

I don’t know what in the hell Cinderella was thinking. If my fairy godmother or anyone else tried to get me to wear shoes made of glass, I would have promptly used them as a weapon before taking my broom and shattering them into sharp little bits. At the very least, I would have kicked off both of them at the ball and left them for my ugly stepsisters to fight over, bunions be damned. And I certainly wouldn’t have married the jerk who wanted to put that impossibly uncomfortable sweatbox on my foot to figure out if I was his one true love. I would have pointed him straight to Only Feet¹ where he would probably find someone much more suitable for his foot fetishy needs.

The first shoes outside of fairytales I remember having feelings about were my black patent Mary Janes. They made me feel fancy. I remember how happy the click of my footsteps in those shoes made me. Very different from the soft thud of my toddler shoes. Very grown up. These were also my first shiny shoes. The way their slick surface bounced around the light made them feel special, almost like I carried a bit of starlight in my steps.

Although they weren’t shiny or clickety, I equally loved my black and white saddle oxfords. Their striking two-tone design added a splash of graphic boldness to my feet that made me feel powerful. My love of black and white persists to this day, and I can trace my contrasting color crush back to those saddle oxfords.

Next came my abiding devotion to clogs. The heavy, wooden, clop-cloppy kind. They were the pièce de résistance to my favorite ensemble of the mid-70s: bell bottoms and a turtleneck. I had this outfit in two color schemes. Red turtleneck, red and white plaid bell bottoms, red glossy clogs. Blue turtleneck, blue and white plaid bell bottoms, blue glossy clogs. The red was my favorite. The red clogs were more vibrant, the glossiness was glossier.

I still have a habit of duplicate dressing. When I find an outfit—or shoes—I love, I purchase more than one color. This predilection was born with my bell bottom/turtleneck/clog combo. Some habits are forever.

Next up in my shoe story came the shoes that would end up practically defining my life for more than four decades. When my mom took me to Mehl’s Shoeland to purchase my first ballet shoes, the saleslady asked me to point my foot while trying them on. Although I mentally told my foot to point, it did the opposite. The saleslady manually stretched my flexed foot into the proper shape. My life as a dancer was off to an inauspicious start.

I had only agreed to dance lessons because my best friend had convinced cajoled me into joining her. Who knew that reluctantly purchased first pair of ballet shoes would lead to a lifetime of ballet, pointe, tap, jazz, lyrical and character shoes, not to mention a 40-year career as a dance teacher and choreographer? Not me and definitely not the saleslady at Mehl’s Shoeland.

One of the hallmarks of my 70s shoe game were my beloved Famolares. These were the it shoe of the day, although like many 70s fashion moments, today they seem like someone was playing a joke on us all. Mr. Famolare, I see your evil genius and raise you by acrylic platform shoes with goldfish inside, which were also almost sorta a thing.

Famolares were clunky, heavy, mostly brown shoes set atop a thick, wavy rubber base. Comfortable, yes. Beautiful, no. But oh so popular back in the day. My mom used to shake her head and remark upon how “chicken-y” my skinny legs looked coming out of such chunky shoes. But my Famolare fascination could not be swayed.

I remember one particular outfit I regularly wore to McLean Middle School featuring a lopsided brown corduroy wrap-around skirt that I made my own little self in Home Ec class accessorized by my thick Famolares. It was a look. And Mom, you were right. (About a lot of things but mostly about my Famolares.)

At least two of these could be used as weapons.

The funkiness of Famolares and 70s fashion in general was followed by the buttoned-up preppiness of the early 80s. The Preppy Handbook² was our fashion bible of the day, and our shoe selections came straight from its pages.

I remember looking around at friends’ feet to determine if it was cooler to sport your penny loafers with an actual penny in the slot or not. (I think we opted for the penny. You never knew when you might need to flip a coin or purchase a piece of bubblegum.)

Sperry Topsiders, also known as boat shoes, were probably the most popular choice in my circle. They were a staple for all of us, although I remember even at the time questioning their “beauty.” (They had none.) But I was not one to go against the grain back then, so boat shoes it was even though I rode on mopeds and skateboards way more often than boats.

Growing up in Texas, cowboy boots have, and probably always will, be a thing. Oddly though, I have never owned them other than as part of our uniform for a high school spirit group. Cowgirl I am not. As I’ve often said, I’m surprised my Texan card has not been revoked since I don’t own cowboy boots, don’t like country music and don’t eat meat. (Not to mention my politics, but Texas wasn’t always like this, I swear!)

One other 80s shoe obsession: Candie’s, the original mainstream hooker heels. I was not allowed to wear these high-heeled wooden mules that came in rainbow-y ice cream colors, but I did wear my mom’s around the house while fake smoking one of her cigarettes and sporting Bo Derek braids.

14-year-old me playing dress up in my mom’s Candies. I partially blame Brooke Shields. Worse than this whole scenario though is that horrendous shag carpet.

By the late 80s, I was in my punk-light phase which featured stand-up bangs, torn clothing and various iterations of black ankle boots and Doc Martins. Except for the stand-up bangs, I’d gladly wear all of this again if it came back around. Nostalgia, you are a bad influence.

For me, the 90s were mostly about forgettable athletic shoes and office appropriate loafers for my fresh out of college ad agency copywriting job. Honestly though, isn’t most 90s fashion worth forgetting?

I do still own one special pair of shoes from this era. Somewhere in my attic are the white peau de soie rosette pumps I wore in my wedding. Some shoes will always be in style no matter how out of style they are.

The new millennium ushered in my mom era, so my shoes from the past 20-something years have reflected such. Lots of sneakers, casual everyday shoes and the occasional night out heel. And I do mean occasional.

I’m guessing stilettos were invented by a man. The girl in the story of The Red Shoes ends up footless and dead after enduring the curse of endless dancing in her chosen footwear. Sadly, this is highly relatable to anyone who’s worn heels to a wedding.

I will admit that heels are to your calves as Facetune is to your face, so sometimes heels it is.

More notably and much less sexy, my shoe collection now also includes some orthopedically enhanced options. A lifetime as a dance teacher does no favors for your feet. Plantar’s fasciitis, bone spurs and collapsing arches have shown up like Cinderella’s stepsisters trying to spoil all the fun.

I am the not-so-proud owner of inserts, custom orthotics, strappy foot brace thingies and some very specialized—and very not cute—shoes. Thankfully none of these are needed on a daily basis. They are mostly put to use during travel and high volume walking days. As age continues to creep in like a stealthy thief, though, I am certain I will rely on them more.

Shoes may not be extensions of our feet, but they are extensions of our stories. The ones we tell ourselves about who we are and the ones we want to portray to the world.

There’s the function factor of how they work for your life, then there’s how they function for your image. There’s how they physically feel and how they make you feel. There’s how well they fit your feet and how well they fit your style.

Your shoes can be the foundation for an outfit or the cherry on top. When they’re right they can help you feel 10 feet tall, even if they’re flats. When they’re wrong, they can make you feel ridiculously small.

Our shoes walk us through our lives. Every one of us has a shoe history and our own unique stories. After all, when it comes to our shoes, one size does not fit all.

1. Yes, there’s an app for foot fetishy people.

2. This book was an actual thing, and anyone who was a teen in the 80s who says they never heard of it is a liar.