20: Shoepidity

20 Jan

I’ve had a perfect track record of being bitten by closed shoes since time immemorial. I always remember looking at pretty ballerinas or suave pumps ever so longingly, attempting only to revel in their beauty by trying them on, walking the length of the shop, and then placing them back on the shelf where they belonged, perhaps, to someone else. Neither did I understand how to get past this challenge of no pain no gain, nor did I ever want to invest in something that was probably not meant for my feet, I deduced. The first kitten-heeled pumps I ever owned, which even made a clickety-click sound when I walked in them (which was paramount to the experience of owning these shoes in the first place), were red and had a beaded flower attached right in the front. I loved them dearly and saved them for special occasions lest they get worn out too fast…you know, just like how Charlie always nibbled on that one bar of chocolate he’d get to his keep for one whole year till his next birthday arrived? That same thing. Except that I came back home one day from school to find that our beloved Gazelle had chewed one from the pair beyond repair, and had then left it in plain sight for all of us to see. Guiltless, at that, unlike many of our four-legged friends. I think she might’ve been angry with us, in all probability. And what a fine way to express her sense of betrayal for having left her behind, from what if I remember clearly, was a school function, where dogs were certainly not allowed. Those were the last closed pair I owned.

It was when I’d started earning my own money, from my first job, that I decided to invest in a pair of ballerinas for my birthday. I’d decided it would be a safe and reasonable choice to begin with. I did wear them for the chosen day, and they made my otherwise broad feet look so pretty, and dainty. But that is all they were worn for; and they remain boxed in my cupboard back home, kept perhaps for me to look at and remember the good ol days by. That was a failure again. The dream always remained, though I didn’t have the heart to try anymore.

It was about seven or eight years later, while I was aimlessly walking around on Brigade Road, that I saw a smart pair of moccasins at Soles, which I just had to own. A grand total of 799 rupees was paid for them, and I felt as determined as ever. I began wearing them religiously, and they bit me religiously too; until they stopped doing so, one very fine day. I’ve no idea whether the world of closed shoes had finally opened its doors to me, or whether I’d figured the magic trick out, but there was no looking back from there. I dove headlong into the universe of pumps, juttis/mojris, moccasins, stilettos, wedges, peep-toes, you name it (because I can’t, haha!), much to my mother’s chagrin at wasting money on unnecessary things. You already own a shoe shop, she always used to say! But that seldom stopped me, because I strategically bought shoes in her absence. Moving on, there was considerable pain and trial to be endured, and it was dealt sometimes with ignorance, and sometimes with the help of powders, creams, bandages, or just wedging my pants in between my feet and respective troublesome shoe, on most days. But we made it through, so much so, that I even dared wear my favourite peep-toe heels to the airport (because I didn’t have enough space in my bag to keep them…why else would one ever think of wearing heels while travelling, say?)…and that was the one and only time in my life where I’ve ever had to run to catch my flight. This universe does have its ways and moments when it must laugh at the expense of unsuspecting, heel-wearing travellers. Pleasant times, much.

However, what brings me to write what has either been the most painful blog post (you’ve ever read) or a post which I’ve painstakingly written (puns intended, mind you), is my vexation at being shoe-bitten all over again…this time by  *waitforit* sports shoes. Trust my shoe karma, if you will, but this seemingly impossible feat, has happened. And with a pair of shoes which I spent quite a bit on; because they don’t make solid sports shoes like the yesteryear which didn’t cost a bomb. This pair of very smart pink and black shoes (I promise I tried them and pranced around the shop in them, and didn’t go by looks alone!) from one of my favourite sports brands, has not only bitten me, but given me painful callouses, and even ripped a chunk of my toenail off. A lot of me cannot believe my incorrigible luck sometimes. It makes me want to laugh and cry, and first send a stinker to Adidas, demanding not just an explanation but either a refund or a replacement, none of which I know I’m going to get. But I’m going to try my stupendously testy luck anyway.

It’s shoe-pid, I know, but please do pass on some luck my way, if your track record is spotlessly merciful.



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