Shopping: The Epic Saga

I typically purchase shoes at stores whose names include one or more of the following words:

city
village
outlet
universe
-o-rama
-less
-mart
bin
basement
bucket
barn

or, if I'm feeling fancy:

pavilion.

The most expensive pair of shoes I've ever owned were purchased at a bridal warehouse and subsequently dyed purple to match a bridesmaid dress. This was a painful purchase, because the store had botched the dye job the first time--gone a shade too indigo--and offered me the "off color" shoes for free. In this corner: free. In this corner, $69. Thinking, however, of the dear friend whose wedding it was, I ponied up the dough and took the correct shoes home.

*SIGH*

(My own wedding shoes were purchased for $4 from the clearance rack at the outlet store. Yes, I'm bragging.)

Yesterday, my friend Sue (not her real name) came over, and we went to lunch. Sue is très chic and très fashionable. When she comes to my house, I sometimes encourage her to examine my wardrobe and shoedrobe and either comment or select items to throw in the charity pile. One time, we were doing this in my clothes-closet, and she said, "I have to stop. You won't have any clothes left if I get rid of everything I hate." When I protested that I had a very nice array of clothing, she informed me that forty-five of these shirts do not a satisfactory selection make.

So we ate some lunch, and then I was like, "Well, there's a shoe store in this shopping center, should we stop in for a look-see?"

(Despite all that followed, we did end up shopping at a "warehouse", so at least I've stayed true to myself on that account.) I had barely had time to look for the "Women's, Serviceable" section when Sue appeared before me holding approximately twenty shoeboxes, which she piled on the floor. I slipped my foot tentatively into one shoe after another while she watched.

"These hurt the ends of my toes," I said.
"These are too flat on top."
"Doesn't it look like my little toe is about to pop out the side?"
"That one part is scratchy."
"These rub my ankle."
"The heel on these is really stiff."

Finally, I found a general complaint that applied to nearly every shoe: "I can feel it touching my foot." (You probably think I'm just saying that for comedic effect. You are so wrong.)

My typical foot apparel consists of: flip flops. So Sue went and pulled some fancy leather flip flops, with detailed top-stitching.

"These are too manly," I said. Sue raised an eyebrow and said, "Really?" in a tone of voice that made me glad I've never told her that one pair of my flip flops is actually from the men's department (it was an accident!).

Another fancy flip flop: this one had a little ring that encircled the big toe. "It's suffocating me!" I screeched, shaking my foot like a cat with scotch tape stuck on its paw. "I can feel it touching all of my toe!"

Sue wordlessly returned the shoe to its box.

You or I or any normal human being might, at this point, start to lose hope. You might take a good, long look at your friend and tell her that she is actually too difficult to put up with, and she can go ahead and wear her MEN'S flip flops--yes, you knew, you always knew!--and parade around town just as she pleases.

But not Sue. Oh, no, not Sue. Sue just went and got more boxes, and more, and more, and more. And I put each shoe on, felt it touching my foot or scraping my toe or sticking into my heel, and took it off.

And then, without warning, I put on a little black flat. "Oh," I said. "This doesn't hurt."

Sue's eyes popped open, and she verrrrrry slowly set the other one down. I put my second foot in the second shoe.

"Oh," I said, shuffling around and doing my fashion-model walk, arms posed as artistically as a Sears mannequin's. "These are very nice. How much do they cost?"

"We aren't worrying about that," Sue said. What she didn't say was: "How about you total up all of the crappy shoes you've bought over the years that you can't wear because they hurt your feet because you didn't try them on?" But I knew we were both thinking it.

So lather, rinse, repeat, for each of the six pairs of shoes I bought, including--after I had apparently worn down Sue's defenses--this AMAZING pair of soft white loafers with AMAZING tassels.

Then we came home and cleared out twelve pairs of useless (to me) shoes to be donated to Goodwill. Sue then had me try on various new shoes and imagine them combined with various items of clothing. "This is too depressing," I said. "I don't even have any pants that fit. I guess I need to get some new jeans."

I was too busy looking at my dumpy self in the mirror to see Sue's eyes light up, but I'm sure they did.

Then I told her how, every time I wear that particular pair of jeans to the office, my co-worker calls out, "Hike 'em up, Alender!" every time I hike up my pants, which is apparently about 35 times a day.

And then somehow, everything went blurry, and then I found myself in a dressing room with dozens of pairs of jeans hanging from the walls around me. (When we left the first store, I had the vague feeling that I had hurt the saleslady's feelings by saying, "Sue will tell me," when she asked what I thought, and saying, "Sue will get it for me," when asked if I needed another size or style.)

At the second store, I tried on somewhere in the neighborhood of 30 items, and bought four. It was strange (and a lot of hard work!) to actually try things on, in multiple sizes. But I learned a really valuable lesson--even within ONE store, the sizes vary wildly between items.

This is such a crock I can't even begin to describe it. I worked in retail clothing 13 years ago, and we had sizes that actually meant something. The company had "fit models"-- women who exemplified the company's size 6, 8, 10, 12. Clearly, that concept has been discarded, because at this particular store, I actually AM a 6, 8, 10, and 12, depending on the item and the year of manufacture.

As puzzling as that was, I did eventually find two pairs of pants (in wildly different sizes) that fit. Now I am a little in awe of the possibilities that lie ahead. I will wear my new jeans with some sort of shirt, and I will put on a pair of butter-soft loafers and I will walk around like I own the place.

And next time someone shouts, "Hike 'em up!", I will know that they are not talking to me, but to some other sad lady with saggy-baggy pants, and somewhere, Sue is looking up into the night at the shadow of a high-heeled boot on the moon, and she will take the secret exit behind the floor-to-ceiling shoe rack, climb into the Fashionmobile, and no doubt save the day.