This past spring I broke my foot. For the second time in a year. Both times I had on the same pair of lush black suede Robert Clergerie clogs. I began to think that I really shouldn’t ever wear this pair of clogs again, especially since I am now the proud owner of 14 pins and a plate in my right foot. My surgeon emphasized that thought as well.
So I decided to do what many before me had done-sell them on ebay. When I was finally semi-ambulatory, I waded through my walk-in closet, and there at the back was my circular stand with all clogs, and right next to it, shelving with boxes of clogs. As I took out one after another, I started to count, and even I was astounded. 44 pairs of clogs. I mean, this actually was embarrasssing. How did I amass this many? This was by no means all of my shoes, so we can’t even get into how many pairs of shoes I own, period. As I went through them I remembered where I bought each pair, how much I paid, and what I did in every single pair.
As I posted them on ebay, I mentioned I broke my foot and couldn’t wear them, though I didn’t tell the stories of when I wore them, who I was with and how they made me feel-that felt too personal. Plus, I didn’t want Debby from Tennessee to know that the two times I wore these clogs, I had broken my foot, just in case she believes that bad things happen in three’s.
I started thinking about my intense connection to shoes, and how they reflected my life;The blue denim Famolare clogs (which by the way, did you know have their own exhibit at the Smithsonian??) that I begged my mom to drive to another city to buy because I had to have them; the white patent sandals with a yellow daisy on the top that matched my turquoise one piece scooter outfit that had big white and yellow daisies splashed all over, with a thick white zipper up the front, and trimmed in white zigzag trim, that I wore for my first day at sleepover camp.
I also would like to add, I wore that because it was my last day to see the paperboy, Bobby Kilgore, who I had a massive crush on. I thought he, being four years or so older, would appreciate my sense of style and sophistication. The only thing is, I didn’t rub the slippery bottoms on the pavement first, so when he rang the doorbell to collect the subscription money, I flew down the steps, and slid right on my ass in front of him, all while the song “Young Girl” by Gary Puckett and the Union Gap played on my Michael Jackson close and play. I am making that part up- I just found the Michael Jackson record player on the street one morning while walking my dog before MJ died. I am not sure what decorative close and play we had, though I know it was probably much more uncool. Like a Fisher Price.
The point is, there is a story behind every shoe, that is way more interesting than the actual shoe,but make up the fabric of my life.