X-rays
cannot show if I need to move up a size or if thick socks, perhaps two pairs of
thin ones, will provide a comfortable fit. When I was a child, the shoe-fitting
fluoroscope at Eames Department Store took away the guess work. Viewing ports
allowed the salesclerk, my mother, and me to see how much wiggle room there was
at the tips of the leather T-straps that were under consideration and on sale. Unless
I had an unusual growth spurt, the shoes were expected to last for a full year
of walking to school, trudging to piano lessons, and racing around the
neighbourhood on my bike.
The
fit mattered, and it matters even more now that I’m, well, getting old. Shoes
need to be flat instead of flattering which leaves my suede pumps and kitten
heels sitting in storage boxes on a closet shelf, awaiting their fate. Rarely
worn, they are remnants of a professional and social life that led me to the
podium at conferences, to the dancefloor at weddings, but also to the bursitis
that’s causing the joints in my left foot to swell.
Quite
a few in my demographic share my concern which explains why Skechers, the
multinational built on cushioned insoles, reached $8 billion in sales last
year. Profits are soaring thanks to a design that eliminates the need to bend
down or use a long-handled shoehorn. Only one in my circle of friends persists
with stilettos and slingbacks. None of us thought we’d be wearing the runners once
purchased for aerobics classes everywhere else, but here we are. Matinees,
medical appointments, and meeting grandkids after school create a schedule that
varies but footwear that doesn’t.
Listening
to the millennials, you’d think no one had given birth or negotiated with a
toddler before they did. Kind of like me when it comes to aging. Judicious
insights were available from my mother, my mother-in-law, my second cousin once
removed. I never asked. How did I not see their disappointment when wrapped parcels
contained Velcro-tab slippers? Gifts like this proved we had not been paying
attention. Feet were the least of their worries. Each of them was navigating a
riptide of loss when partners died, homes were sold, and drivers’ licenses
taken away.
Dusting
off and donating shoes is straightforward by comparison. Cold temperatures and
icy sidewalks offer an excuse to wait another week before loading boxes into my
trunk, dropping them off at a thrift shop. Bye-bye midlife as well as any sense
of style I ever had.
A
salesclerk checks the soles before assigning a price. Zones within the store
help shoppers find what they need: Clothing, Electronics, Books.
Yet when she places my shoes in Vintage, it’s unsettling because the
category that once implied old-fashioned and out-of-date now, apparently,
includes me.
