Comfortable Shoes

My husband, teenage daughter and I just spent a long weekend in New York City. We do this a lot. 

People often ask me where we stay, thinking I might have the inside track on an inexpensive bed and breakfast. Well, I do. But, unless they want to spend their visit with my sainted mother, they might want to go elsewhere. (Although her warm croissants are to die for.)

On this trip, however, there was no room at the proverbial inn.  But, I happened to find a wonderful guesthouse in Harlem, for a lot less money than a midtown (or anywhere in town for that matter) hotel. It was elegant but a little faded, much like the places we stay in New Orleans. I immediately fell in love with it. My daughter, meanwhile, spent an evening with a friend, then ended up on a couch at my mom's for the rest of our visit. 

My trips back to New York always include long long long walks. This is how I reconnect with my hometown: people-watching (beyond compare people-watching), passing by familiar landmarks and, even more often, seeing everything that's changed. Staying in a new neighborhood gave me a chance to explore and to extend my usual walks an extra mile or so north.

The first day, I toured around the Upper Westside (my old 'hood). From our guesthouse to 110th, then South on Columbus to 72nd, then back uptown on Amsterdam. The second day, I set out early and walked all the way down to Times Square to pick up my niece for a day with my daughter (her "sister-cousin"). By the time I dropped the girls off at the Loews 84th multiplex for Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs 2 in 3D, I felt like I was home again.

Home again, with very very sore feet. 

We had a little time to kill after brunch, so my sister and I left my husband in a pub and pursued another important New York pastime: shoe shopping.

Before you picture a scene from Sex and the City, let me explain. This was not about fashion or fetishes. This was about pain relief. Did we go to Christian Louboutin? No. To Jimmy Choo? No. Gucci, Manolo Blahnik or Tory Burch? No, no, no. We hoofed it down to Aerosoles.

I discovered Aerosoles many years ago. Some supermodel said in an interview that when she wasn't working, she wore Aerosoles. I figured if they're good enough for Heidi or Naomi or Christy or Linda (or whoever it was; I don't remember), they're good enough for me.  

We went in and in short order, I tried on every pair of flat, black ankle boots they had in my size (10, yes, 10; if they get any bigger I'm going to the drag queen department). There wasn't much of a competition. One pair felt better — way better — than any of the others. I sank into them with an audible sigh of relief and pulled out my wallet. 

For one brief shining Carrie Bradshaw moment, I had second thoughts.

"Do these make me look like a lesbian?" I asked my sister, patiently waiting on a nearby bench.

"Uh ..."

"A geriatric?"

"Uh ..."

"A lesbian geriatric?"

While she searched for a politically correct non-answer, I shrugged and bought them anyway.

On my last morning in Manhattan, I walked across Central Park to Fifth Avenue, visited my old high school on Park, and then walked about thirty blocks down Madison. The sidewalks were filled with tiny children in school uniforms. The weather was gorgeous. The window shopping was fabulous. And, my feet were fine.

Within a couple of hours, we collected my daughter (had a couple of those croissants for the road) and headed back to Massachusetts.

"What do you think of my new shoes?" I asked my 16-year-old fashion consultant. I pulled up my pant hems so she could get the full effect.

"Um, cool," she said, without taking her eyes off her iPhone.

Um, maybe that was a good thing.

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It Doesn't Matter if the Shoes Fit ... As Long as Everyone Else is Wearing Them

"I did not have three thousand pairs of shoes, I had one thousand and sixty."

... Imelda Remedios Visitacion Romualdez Marcos

A deposed dictator's wife, her shoe obsession was held up as an indication of an arrogant, self-absorbed lack of regard for the common man. But, let's be honest. Imelda was in good company.

Oprah, Carrie Bradshaw, Victoria Beckham, Danielle Steele, Tina Turner, Kim Kardashian, Barbie. These women, real and imagined, have amassed footwear collections that wouldn't fit in my house much less my closet. These women have woven shoes into their media mythology. They're beautiful. They're rich. They're spoiled. They can, if they choose, take Paul Simon's advice and wear "diamonds on the soles of their shoes." Literally.

I get it; I do. Shoes are a perfect union of function and fashion. They can get us where we need to go — and ensure we turn heads once we get there. The right ones are exquisite little works of art, ornamenting the most mundane parts of our bodies. In fact, there's something symbolic about putting so much money (hundreds or even thousands of dollars) into an accessory that will be scuffed and dragged and scraped along the ground. "No sweat," you're telling the world. "I can afford it, and I'm worth it. 'Don't like it? You can kiss my ... feet."

In this culture, at least, women of all ages, backgrounds and financial means join in the hunt for the perfect pair. You can find as many enthusiastic shoe shoppers in the discount aisles of Marshalls as you can on the plush banquettes at Neiman Marcus.

But, at what age do females become obsessed with shoes? As the mother of a tween, I'm here to tell you it's young, very young, younger than you might think.

I blame Cinderella. How does she win her man? It's not through her smarts, through hard work, through her kindness or her gentle nature. It's not even through her good looks. Cinderella gets the guy because ... the shoe fits. Instant happy ending! Really, why haven't more shoe companies leveraged the whole Cinderella story? Talk about a product placement made in ad agency heaven.

Then, there's Dorothy. Dorothy Gale, remember her? Her ruby slippers were the key to getting an audience with the so-called wonderful wizard and getting back home to her beloved, if colorless, Kansas. One of the original pairs worn by Judy Garland in the 1939 movie (there were several used during filming), sold at auction in 2000 for $660,000. And, Harry Winston created a tribute pair with 25 karats of genuine diamonds and rubies, valued at $3 million. That's a lot of Milk Bones, Toto!

My daughter had ruby slippers for a few years, although I found them at Target and they cost considerably less than the Winston versions (oh, about $2,999,990 less). Every Christmas, Target displayed bright red glitter slippers and I bought several pairs. They were my daughter's signature look at Sundance Preschool. The girl had style!

Soon, however, the need to conform to her peers became stronger than her desire to look like a movie star. Suddenly, ruby slippers were out and light-up sneakers were in. They were actually pretty cool. Diminutive athletic shoes with lights along the sides and on the soles. Stomp your foot or run through the playground with a particularly heavy gait, and your classmates were treated to an impromptu light show. There were Disney Princess, Teletubbies, Sponge Bob and Dora the Explorer options. Stride Rite and other top shelf children's shoemakers had versions of these, but economical moms could find them cheaper.

Then, around third or fourth grade, my daughter and her friends suddenly realized that there were different price points where shoes were concerned. I regret to report that the assumption they made (and we, as adults, seem to make too) was that the more you spend, the more you get, the more worthy you are. Labels became oh so important. The girls didn't want boots; they wanted Uggs. They didn't want sneakers; they wanted Nikes. They didn't want sandals; they wanted Crocs.

Let's talk about Crocs for a minute. My favorite quote comes from my husband. "$40 for rubber shoes? What a crock!" Not only did all the girls need (yes, that would be "need," not "want") Crocs, but they also had to amass a vast collection of "Jibbitz," the clip-on jewels, insignia and characters that adorn them.

(Full disclosure here, I tried a pair of Crocs myself. They were very comfortable, but made my feet dirty. They went on to the local good will in practically perfect condition.)

The other tween brand worth mentioning — and one that is having a longer shoe shelf life than the Croc, which fell out of style halfway through sixth grade — is Ugg. Ugg boots are very warm, very stylish and very very very expensive. There are plenty of sheepskin boots that approximate the look of Uggs, but the girls know which are genuine and which are "fuggs" or "fake Uggs." My daughter is an ardent animal lover and I thought that might convince her to try synthetic fuggs instead. After all, as PETA activist Pamela Anderson finally realized years after pairing the boots with her bathing suit, sheepskin Uggs are made out of ... uh ... sheepskin. (Ms. Anderson set blondes back a bit with that one, I'm afraid.) But, no dice.

(Another confession, I also have a pair of Uggs. They were marked down to $50 at T.J. Maxx and I've had them almost twelve years. I've worn them so many times, and they've been subjected to so much snow and ice and salt, that they are mere shadows of their former selves. My daughter recently sniffed, "Mom, are those supposed to be black?")

So, here's the bottom line. Do I really have the right to criticize my daughter's shoe choices when I've made the same choices myself? Is it fair to think that Crocs and Uggs (or ruby slippers and light-up sneakers) are silly when I have a small but beloved collection of Christian Louboutins (if one pair, splurged upon for a very special family wedding, constitutes a collection)?

At least, I know my daughter and I are not alone. While other apparel categories have seen a decline during the recent recession, shoe sales have actually increased. This is especially true for luxury women's brands like Louboutin, Blahnik and Choo. Is it because of Sex and the City? Or because heels give us an extra lift and we all long to be taller? Or because shoes still fit no matter how many helpings of lasagna we've had?

It's a mystery. But, like mother like daughter. If the shoe fits — and it's pretty and it's on sale and I still have twenty minutes to kill before a lunch meeting — I'll buy it.