I Have Become Comfortably Frump

If you're a woman with big feet, small wages, and a lot on your mind, beware. You could become a frumpy shoe wearer. I know because it happened to me.

Somewhere along the line, I footwear fashion sense devolved into that of my seventh grade social studies teacher. At 13, I was very tall and interested in history, just like her, but I never would have seen those traits as a sentence to an adulthood of ugly footwear. I couldn't see myself, years later, standing in front of a class, sporting a pair of navy hush puppies below a calf length tartan skirt. Yet here I am at work today, not in hush puppies, but in a pair of k-mart flip flops. The other day, I WILLINGLY CHOSE to wear brown socks under my worn out black Mary Janes, and white athletic booties beneath my red ones.

Here, I retrace the events that lead to my current condition:

The Carter Years
By the time I reach 3rd grade, I can fit into my mom's heels. Age appropriate girls footwear starts to become scarce. Fortunately, it's the 70's in the upper Midwest, so it's tennis shoes and snowboots most of the year. I learn an important lesson when I willfully insist on getting a dreamy pair of Stride Rite red canvas low wedge espadrilles from Dayton's, even though they are too small, and wear them only once on a muddy and miserable field trip to a nature reserve.

The Reagan Years
Being tall("where's the flood?") and curvy("boom boom") prevents me from enjoying other missy sized junior high fashion trends, so I concentrate on shoes. The pointy-toed styles of the early eighties are especially flattering on "those boats" (mom's name for my feet). In eighth grade, I am well on my way to becoming a Midwestern Emelda Marcos until my feet grow beyond size 10, past the edge of "normal," into big & tall 11. (I now believe the combination of pointy shoes and growing feet lead to later foot troubles.)

I start hanging around with artsy, surplus store types who are into Doc Martens, Chuck Tailors, and those floppy black Chinese things that come in bins.

The Bush I Years
I move out east for college, where the styles are sexier. However, I notice that young men weren't exactly comfortable being shorter than, even if their date's shoes are hot.

My fashion sense basically stops with the 1992 edition of the J. Crew catalog.

By the time I finish school, I know that instead of browsing displays in shoe stores, I must simply go to the clerk, cross my fingers, and request to see everything they have in an 11. I return home to the land of snowmobile boots.

The Clinton Years
Shoes get clunky, chunky and funky. I move to the east coast, get rid of my car, and I find myself walking everywhere. Unlike the fashionistas in my new home, the Midwesterner in me refuses to walk in painful heels or spend precious rent money on pedicures.

One ray of hope: Al Gore's invention will eventually lead me to on-line shoe shopping.

The Bush II Years
For a brief, horrible time, I ,too, teach social studies to middle schoolers. Later, my bone spurs make walking more than 30 minutes extremely painful.(coincidence?) One podiatrist advises me to wear men's shoes for the rest of my life. My GP, a female, recommends that I get a second opinion. The second opinion doctor gets to cutting. After I recover from the surgery, my feel feel fantastic, but the 2 inch nightcrawler like scar doesn't make them any prettier, in spite of the bunion removal.

Today, I scour zappos and nordstrom.com, looking for big, stylish shoes that cost less than a day's pay and won't make me look like Ru Paul. I must avoid the poorly made and trendy, for each purchase is a serious investment. If I drove to work everyday, I wouldn't skimp on tires. So no fun flowers or fruit, polka-dotted Pucci or paisley, no sequins.

Those navy hush puppies are starting to look pretty good. Noooo!