The Power of Red Shoes

“Just where do you think you are going, walking through my area,” she paused to look my straight in the eye in order to convey her absolute annoyance. Oh man, here we go again. A team lead told me to go ahead and take my cart through the meat cooler to the back room. I proceeded with caution. Often times I need to watch my step, as many retail workers grow extremely territorial about their spaces, how they are arranged and who tromps through them at what times. This is specifically the case in many Whole Foods grocery stores, where I swear the lack of sugar and processed foods creates an overriding atmosphere of crankiness, as they all work tirelessly to “detox” their bodies. The heavy set butcher held my gaze and then broke into a pleasant smile, “…wearing those adorable shoes!” she laughed at her own ruse. Breathing a sigh of relief, I once again marveled at the sheer power of a cute pair of shoes. We stood over her cart of organic, crimson burger patties and I talked about red shoes and how everyone needs a pair, don’t they? In her white pants, shirt, apron and hat, surrounded by knives and meat, I could certainly understand her desire for perky footwear.

Despite my newly evolving view on shoes, I tend to favor running shoes over favor cute ones. I’ve never been one to ascribe to the, “Damn, these shoes make me look good!” philosophy. In fact, I hold a pretty impressive record in the athletic shoe department, if that record were to include the number of pairs purchased. I also am fairly well versed in the highly technical jargon surrounding the running shoe genre. Talk to me about over and under pronation and I’ve got you covered, yet move onto boot styles for this year or peak-a-boo toes and kitten heels, and watch my eyes slowly close up shop.

As a mother of two small children, it is easy to fall prey to the sweat pant syndrome. Moms out there, you know the feeling. Your wardrobe consists of worn out t-shirts from Target, jeans that were in style 3 seasons ago, and grass stained running shoes. Sure, I always have a few outfits I can pull together to look half-way decent in an emergency. But, hang around me long enough and you’ll see those very outfits make several appearances. While I do love a cozy pair of tennis shoes and a nice pair of jeans as much as the next gal, I also fear the day I turn 50 and find myself wearing peach tracksuits out to lunch with friends who resemble Mrs. Doubtfire. A fine line exists between laying low on the fashion continuum hanging on to the belief that I convey a sporty, casual style and looking like I’ve completely fallen off the “I care what I look like,” wagon.

I learned long ago from my mom and sister that accessories “make” the outfit. I long for the days when I lived at home and browsed through three different wardrobes each night before selecting the perfect outfit, a shirt from my sister’s closet, the belt and earrings from my mom’s massive mirrored closet and black pants and shoes from my own closet. Never again will I find myself as well dressed as I was in high school, unless or course my mom and sister come to live with me someday.

I enjoy looking nice, I just don’t necessarily want to put in the leg work required to get there. One day, heading my mom and sister’s timeless advice, I decided to focus on shoes. With about 30 minutes of free time before I needed to pick up Kai and Elizabeth, I swung into The Designer Shoe Warehouse store, known as DSW. I made a beeline for the clearance section in the back of the store. This store isn’t kidding with the name. It is a huge warehouse full of shoes. Many women might refer to such a store as heaven. Me? It looks more like hell. How am I supposed to work my way through that entire inventory by myself?

I wear a size 9 ½ shoe. That tends to limit the degree of cuteness that will work on my cruise ship feet. I’m looking for a minimizing shoe. Give me something that makes those puppies look at least slightly dainty and feminine, or I might as well throw my money into another pair of running shoes. When I walk into a shoe store, I look for what I to call, “The big girl” section. These sizes tend to be pushed back in the farthest, and darkest corner of the store. As soon as I stopped in front of the 9 1/2 sign, I saw them, waiting right there for me like Christmas in July, the perfect pair of red shoes. I loved them right away for a few reasons. First of all, I knew my sister and my mom would both approve. I could hear both of their voices chiming in my mind as I slipped them on, “Well, you can dress up just about any outfit with those shoes! Get them! “ Hesitantly, I turned the box over to check the price. They were only $24.00! BINGO! We have a winner! I checked myself out in the full length mirror, sure enough, I was already feeling better. Fueled by my initial find, I spent the next several minutes scanning the racks for more bargains. In a rush of optimistic bliss, I tried on dozens of different styles and colors of shoes. In the end, I purchased 4 pairs that day, two of which happened to be cherry red!

Like a shiny merichino cherry perched on the top of a towering sundae, the red shoes rang up at a further reduced price. I only paid about $14.00 for them, when originally they were listed at $60.00. Smug and loaded down with the bulky shoe boxes, I figured I only needed to wear them once or twice to make the purchase worthwhile. Looking back, I had no concept of the hidden power of the cute shoe, but I would soon find out.

I wore the red shoes later that day when I picked up Elizabeth at preschool. I weaved my way through the crowded hallway and waited at her classroom door along with the other mothers. The minute she spotted me, her eyes zeroed in on my feet. “Mommy! “ she squealed. “ You got new shoes!” Pride flooded her face, as if she had been secretly whispering this very prayer at night, pleading with God to help her mother understand the power of the shoes, to finally purchase a note worthy pair, like the mommies in the magazines. As we made our way back down the incense scented hall, we squeezed past tiny kids gripping their parent’s hands, laughing, “Excuse me,” as we bumped into each other along the way. Elizabeth eyed the director at the end of the hall. She was dispensing cheerful good-byes to her flock as we floated out the door.

“Mrs. Barb!” Elizabeth called out. “Look at my Mommies new shoes!”
Mrs. Barb, looked down and shared her approval, as did another mom right in front of to me. “Aren’t those cute!” I thanked them for the compliment and pushed Elizabeth out the double doors and into the sunshine. I can take my daughter to dance class, read to her, play board games and ride bikes outside with her, but apparently, in her mind, the gold medal goes to the mom with the cutest shoes. It looks like she and the butcher from Whole Foods have something in common.