Ours is a family full of snake-feet women. What on most people are feet are on us, long, winding, toe-ended reeds. When Mom took my sister and me shopping for back-to-school shoes, the trips invariably ended up with her shaking her head back and forth and muttering “snake feet” while the saleswoman slid the width-measuring bar ever-inward and subsequently offered the lone pair of shoes that “might fit.”
Mom has the same feet, and her twin sisters too. My aunt Renee has something like a 11.5AA which is more like a pair of skis than feet (love you and your feet, Renee); suffice it to say that it’s hard for her to find shoes.
Despite the fact that it was once hard to find properly fitting shoes, it turns out that high heels and strappy sandals love snake feet, and in the years since those types of shoes replaced Keds, my inner Imelda Marcos has thrived.
I love ballet and pointed-toe flats, my trusty TOMS –especially my Union Jacks and my map-of-New-Orleans special editions- and my worn in Reefs. I love slides and kitten heels, the occasional svelte wedge, versatile pumps, leather riding boots, impractical suede booties, sherpa-lined slippers and, back to them, towering stilettos.
At its least glam and most practical, a shoe is a protective support. It can help you run, provides arch support, and allows long walks on city streets or a meandering hike in the woods.
Shoes are also accessories, a relatively simple way to gussy up an outfit. I can never figure out how to wear vests or hats, and only after years of practice, have I come to understand scarves. But shoes? Put on a crisp pair of navy shorts, a trim white shirt and some flip-flops or sneakers, and you have a lovely summer uniform. Trade the flops or tennies for a colorful pair of silk-toppedor metallic leather sandals, and sister, you are a different person.
