Five Pairs of Shoes in My Closet

After a burglary, I joked with my mom that the thief must have been disappointed that I invested in shoes, not jewelry. To me, the shiny red boxes of sexy Charles Jourdan pumps overhead in my closet were jewels.

No more. Now all the boxes hold comfort shoes that don’t aggravate my metatarsalgia or plantar fasciitis. At least I don’t have bunions, to boot.

Conveniently speaking of boots, for my fiftieth birthday, I bought custom-made pink and black cowboy boots from an El Paso bootmaker I visited on a road trip from Dallas to San Diego. Painful, but non-negotiable keepers.

The shoes I wear most are pink boiled wool Haeflinger house slippers with cork soles. I discovered this model at Susan’s Colorado house when she gave me a brown pair that her red and white Aussie, Annie Oakley, had eaten. Good dog!

Next up, Birkenstocks with thin black straps crossing my toes like old-fashioned snowshoes. In the nineties in Dallas, an associate with the firm moved to San Francisco. He had endured endless unsolicited fashion advice from the women in our office. I wrote him a poem containing even more advice:

You’ll probably wear Birkenstocks there.

Paul, socks with Birkenstocks never work.

Now I live in California too. I wear Birkenstocks, but not with socks.

My daily dog walking shoes are pale gray Hoka Biondis with soles so thick, my feet look like they’re tied to marshmallows, but they feel like that too.

The rest of my many comfort shoes are boring in equal measure. In Rome for my sixtieth birthday, I bought a pair of black, luggy loafers. Once I complained to my husband, “It’s not like they’re sexy shoes. They shouldn’t hurt.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he replied, “They might be sexy on a dude.”