I Think Every 10th LJ Entry Has to be About Shoes, Right?
Good news! I haven't lost my ability to enjoy chick lit, I was
just reading the bad stuff. Currently enjoying a memoir-y thing
(more like a collection of columns) by Marian Keyes called Under the Duvet. I think I'm going to have to try her writing method tomorrow and see how it works out for me.
An excerpt, for all of my fellow shoe loving ladies:
Imeldas, and How to Spot Them
I remember the first time I fell in love. I was fifteen years old and in a department store. Suddenly the breath was knocked out of my body, as my eyes fixed on the object of my desire--a pair of four-inch, black-patent platform wedges with an ankle strap.
I wanted them desperately. I felt they'd change me into someone sophisticated and beautiful and make me completely irresistable to Eddie Jackson. But by the time I'd saved up my baby-sitting money, the shoes were long gone and Eddie Jackson was sporting several hickies that had Karen Baker's teeth marks on them.
Then, to my surprise, I became obsessed by a pair of navy clogs and I learnt a valuable lesson. Men will come and men will go, but there will always be shoes.
In the same way that men are either leg-men, breast-men or I'll-take-what-I'm-given men, women are divided into shoe women, bath-products women or nice-underwear women. I'm definitely a shoe woman. Or an Imelda, as we like to call ourselves.
I used to think I was the only one. I lined the floor of my wardrobe with five-inch-heeled gold stilettos, eau-de-nil embroidered leather sandals adn flowery Dr. Martens and thought I was the only person who had ever slept with their new pair of green nubuck clogs.
Until a girl started at work, wearing oxblood pumps with back-to-front heels. "I love shoes," she admitted. "All my friends call me Imelda. After Imelda Marcos."
I was really upset. I had thought I was Imelda. But it transpired that there are lots of us out there and it's better to befriend each other. We're like collectors of rare artefacts. Only an Imelda would murmur, "I've got a pair of rather special cone-heeled ankle boots that I think you might find interesting." and only another Imelda wouldn't think she was a total nutter.
If they can't get shoes in the right size, Imeldas will buy them, if they're sufficiently fabulous. Because there are remedies. Too big? Hey, that's why God invented insoles! Too small? What's a small piece of excruciating agony when your feet are well dressed?
Imeldas pamper their footwear as if they were loyal pets, buying them little titbits, like color-protect and rain-guard and all the rest of the crap they try to flog you every time you buy shoes. I've got tons of those plastic things you stick in shoes to help them keep shape. And I've spent at least three years of my life holding suede boots over boiling kettles, in a labor of love.
Although recently I met an Imelda who keeps her shoes in their original boxes*, and I don't know about you, but I think that's going too far.
Unlike other garments, shoes don't suddenly become too tight one week out of every four. Shoes will fit you snugly even if you haven't got to the gym for over three weeks and you've been having curries and pizzas every night. You see, shoes deserve your loyalty because they return it.
How to know if you're an Imelda:
-If you've bought shoes and never worn them because you didn't want to damage them.**
-If you structure your day around the shoes you want to wear, staying in when you want ot go out, just so you can wear your duck-egg-blue grosgrain slippers.
-If you've spent more on a pair of shoes than you would on a holiday.
-If you own around ten almost identical black pairs.
-If you've ever sustained injury from falling off a high pair and didn't mind.
-If you would rather lie and say you have athlete's foot than loan your shoes to your flatmate.
-If you've ever slept in a pair--and not because you were so drunk that you couldn't take them off.
*Carrie Bradshaw on Sex and the City
**Have this fear about Jimmy Choos, etc. That and I don't think I should own shoes that I might come to value more than people. Um. Yes. No need to tell me what a shallow fear that is.
p.s. my mother has referred to me as Imelda, and I think if I ever wrote a similar type of confessional I would also have to note the influence of Miss Carrie Bradshaw on my obsession.
An excerpt, for all of my fellow shoe loving ladies:
Imeldas, and How to Spot Them
I remember the first time I fell in love. I was fifteen years old and in a department store. Suddenly the breath was knocked out of my body, as my eyes fixed on the object of my desire--a pair of four-inch, black-patent platform wedges with an ankle strap.
I wanted them desperately. I felt they'd change me into someone sophisticated and beautiful and make me completely irresistable to Eddie Jackson. But by the time I'd saved up my baby-sitting money, the shoes were long gone and Eddie Jackson was sporting several hickies that had Karen Baker's teeth marks on them.
Then, to my surprise, I became obsessed by a pair of navy clogs and I learnt a valuable lesson. Men will come and men will go, but there will always be shoes.
In the same way that men are either leg-men, breast-men or I'll-take-what-I'm-given men, women are divided into shoe women, bath-products women or nice-underwear women. I'm definitely a shoe woman. Or an Imelda, as we like to call ourselves.
I used to think I was the only one. I lined the floor of my wardrobe with five-inch-heeled gold stilettos, eau-de-nil embroidered leather sandals adn flowery Dr. Martens and thought I was the only person who had ever slept with their new pair of green nubuck clogs.
Until a girl started at work, wearing oxblood pumps with back-to-front heels. "I love shoes," she admitted. "All my friends call me Imelda. After Imelda Marcos."
I was really upset. I had thought I was Imelda. But it transpired that there are lots of us out there and it's better to befriend each other. We're like collectors of rare artefacts. Only an Imelda would murmur, "I've got a pair of rather special cone-heeled ankle boots that I think you might find interesting." and only another Imelda wouldn't think she was a total nutter.
If they can't get shoes in the right size, Imeldas will buy them, if they're sufficiently fabulous. Because there are remedies. Too big? Hey, that's why God invented insoles! Too small? What's a small piece of excruciating agony when your feet are well dressed?
Imeldas pamper their footwear as if they were loyal pets, buying them little titbits, like color-protect and rain-guard and all the rest of the crap they try to flog you every time you buy shoes. I've got tons of those plastic things you stick in shoes to help them keep shape. And I've spent at least three years of my life holding suede boots over boiling kettles, in a labor of love.
Although recently I met an Imelda who keeps her shoes in their original boxes*, and I don't know about you, but I think that's going too far.
Unlike other garments, shoes don't suddenly become too tight one week out of every four. Shoes will fit you snugly even if you haven't got to the gym for over three weeks and you've been having curries and pizzas every night. You see, shoes deserve your loyalty because they return it.
How to know if you're an Imelda:
-If you've bought shoes and never worn them because you didn't want to damage them.**
-If you structure your day around the shoes you want to wear, staying in when you want ot go out, just so you can wear your duck-egg-blue grosgrain slippers.
-If you've spent more on a pair of shoes than you would on a holiday.
-If you own around ten almost identical black pairs.
-If you've ever sustained injury from falling off a high pair and didn't mind.
-If you would rather lie and say you have athlete's foot than loan your shoes to your flatmate.
-If you've ever slept in a pair--and not because you were so drunk that you couldn't take them off.
*Carrie Bradshaw on Sex and the City
**Have this fear about Jimmy Choos, etc. That and I don't think I should own shoes that I might come to value more than people. Um. Yes. No need to tell me what a shallow fear that is.
p.s. my mother has referred to me as Imelda, and I think if I ever wrote a similar type of confessional I would also have to note the influence of Miss Carrie Bradshaw on my obsession.