In the last six months, every time I have spied women perched upon towering heels, I have seen scrunched up band-aids peeping out of the borders (scrunched up because despite the global epidemic that is shoe-bite, no company has come up with a band-aid which doesn’t bunch up once inside the heeled footwear). And the numbers of such foolhardy souls is not diminutive. I see one every day, be it the underground or the street level, trudging away bravely, paying no (outward) attention to her bleeding sole (exaggeration alert). So with them masking their agony so well, how do I know? You see I am recovering victim of the “kill all women with torturous footwear” attack and I know a fellow sufferer by plain sight.
To say I have a footwear fetish would constitute an inaccuracy. No, the footwear fiend in this marriage is the husband. So if you spy shoes spilling off the shoe-rack at our ‘ome sweet ‘ome, it is because:
a) Most of them are the hubby’s
b) One or two are borrowed (read on to know why)
c) The rest sit pretty to don (more) beautiful feet, not mine. No I am not babysitting them; I am stuck with them.
At any given time since I could decide on how my feet sould be shod, I have housed a minimum of three pairs of footwear of which I have only ever done justice to one. Not because I was picky I was forced to choose one; the other two would invariably leave my feet battered and bruised. No manner of “trying out” at the shop would EVER betray the painful future the shoes held in store for me.
Today our tiny little apartment houses two incorrigible pair (of humans) and 30 pairs of footwear, 10 are mine and I still can only wear one pair.
Let’s begin at the beginning. Excited at having bid bye bye to Bata and a gusty aloha to Clarks, UK, I went shoe shopping in my first week here. Armed with the conviction that my transit across oceans had finally broken the jinx of having to wear ill-fitting shoes (I was practising the elusive art of positive thinking at this point). That particular trip earned me two lovely looking pairs of heels.
Soon came the day that the first pair of newly bought sandals was to make a debut and that too at a party which promised a good time (this for me includes dancing). Once out of the apartment, a hundred steps later, I had a familiar sensation: shoe bite. I shrugged it off and trudged on bravely.
“They are new, need to be broken into,” I told myself.
Those leathery fiends had the same idea about me. By the beginning of the night I was hopping mad, literally. In the end, all I could do was sit and drown my sorrow in a weak vodka. So much for fun.
Needless to say, the killer heels were relegated to the back of the closet at the earliest. Thankfully, giving in to a sense of nostalgia I was sure I would experience once away from India, I had packed my trusty old open toes sandals, which I worked with for the next one month. Finally, I would walk again, albeit with bandages/band-aids on.
You would think I would have learnt my lesson and picked up a few new pairs when I visited India. Nope. I am one of those idiots who believe that if tried enough number of times, the same mistake can yield a different result. Of course I had good reason to repeat the fallacy- but we won’t dwell on that. On many an occasion I have returned home from an outing with a friend walking miles in her shoes, literally.
Finally thanks to one of them darling beings I call friends, I was introduced to the W(ide) variety of shoes. So basically they are for wide toed misfits like me and fit like a dream. Unfortunately for me they are not widely available (yes yes that was funny, that’s why I said what I did). So we are back at the beginning and I am stuck with many a shoe and only one fits. But at least I am not bleeding.