I’ve always had a love-hate relationship with my feet.

My maternal grandmother bought shoes for me whenever I came to visit.  I cherished those gifts.  Nana bought penny loafers:  Shiny, stiff, in boxes smelling of leather, shoe cream, and tissue.  My mother doubted the virtue of these shoes on crippled feet, but Nana assured her that the leather would not bend.  They had steel shanks and thick rubber heels.  I proudly wore them for that Tuesday-after-Labor-Day start of school.  I pried the pennies from their slots to drop in the bank for Pagan Babies.  I loved those loafers.

On the other hand, my mother purchased brogues, hideous heavy clunkers with flaps and thin burgundy shoe-laces.  I would have been content with saddle shoes but somehow those fell by the wayside as I grew into teen years.  The brogues felt like cement blocks.  Other girls snickered behind their hands when I walked down the hallways.  I despised these brogues.  In eighth grade, I trudged up Kinamore Avenue to Northland Shopping Center and paid eight dollars to have three feet of untouched hair lopped from my head.  Dad cried; mother yelled.  What were you thinking? she demanded.

I was thinking that if I had to be ugly on my feet, I might as well be ugly everywhere.

Shoes have contributed to injury or embarrassment on more than a few occasions, usually when I attempted to be fashionable or at least, not ugly.  Most recently, I broke my hand when Velcro closures popped open as I made my way to the car in August of 2013. I fell and landed on my outstretched hands, splintering the bones in my left ring-finger.   I’ve struggled down cobble stones in kitten heels and walked out of pumps crossing a stage when I graduated from college.  I went to a job interview in 1983 in New Orleans wearing leather flats and had to remove them to climb down a circular stairwell to the lowest level to meet with the most junior member of the hiring staff in his basement closet.

When other women strap on stiletto heels, I bend down to tie my Doc Martens and hope no one will notice.

Yesterday I took possession of two pairs of shoes modified by a cobbler in Prairie Village to my rather exacting specifications.  To one pair, he had added a strap and buckle.  On the other, he reversed a double-back Velcro strap and added that all-important buckle, carefully measuring the rise of my steep in-step and adjusting the fabricated mechanism to suit my need for lateral support.  To the $100 cost of each pair of shoe, another $30 per pair made them wearable for me.

And most importantly:  They look pretty.  Almost — almost — like “girl” shoes.  

I realize that there is no real deeper significance to shoes — at least, not intrinsically.  They cover your feet, keep them dry, protect them from rocks.  But for the entirety of my American girlhood I’ve been bombarded with the message that certain shoes enhance the beauty and desirability of women.  Even men that have said they “don’t like high heels” nevertheless let their eyes roam over that comely actress or passing customer with shapely calves and black sling-backs.  Most of society does not pretend.  Images of that sexy shoe flood the media.  Able-bodied women greedily snag the BOGO bargains at DSW while the crippled few scour the internet for “comfort shoes” priced lower than two hundred bucks.

Of everything that estranges me from “normal” people, my gait ranks first but my shoes crowd at a close second.

It took two weeks to get my shoes back from Prairie Village Shoe Repair. Mike, the owner, wanted particular buckles.  When I told him I did not care if the buckles were perfect, he said that he cared.  He said, “Hopefully you will tell people where you got your shoes repaired.  I don’t want them to think I sell lousy  buckles or do shoddy work.”

Neither is true.  Instead as you can see, Mike the world’s best shoe guy does fine work, and thanks to him, my wardrobe of wearable shoes has expanded by two pair.  Moreover, today, because of these buckles, I can feel just a little bit pretty, if only on my feet.

It’s the eighth day of the thirtieth month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues, and I continue to stumble through it.

For information on one project to collect shoes for orphaned children in the US and internationally, please see the Buckner Shoes “Shoes For Orphan Souls” project website. Rotary District 6040 and the Waldo Brookside Rotary Club proudly participate in this program.