Jul '02 [Home] Short Prose The Parallel Life of a Shoe Junkie La Kesha Howell I love shoes. I really do. If I could marry shoes, I would. I think my betrothed would be a classic black, Italian leather pump with a modest heel that had some personality—perhaps a subtle, non-trendy curve. We would live in an enormous shoebox, the biggest on the rack, and we'd have a swimming pool for summer parties with our neighbors, the Sandals, and a big living room with a fireplace for cozy chats with the Boots. I'd play golf with the Spikes, go to the gym with the Sneakers, and invite the Spectators to tea. We'd be very 'old money.' We'd shun all the 'trendies' and scoff at the flip-flops' lack of modesty, all the while yearning secretly for the freedom of thongs, or to see how a platform wedge would look with a jingly ankle bracelet.            I think back to the first time I swooned—definitely love at first site. I was in JC Penney with Mom, and I swear those patent leather Mary Janes winked at me. I'm certain of it. As slyly as a five year old could, I wrenched my hand free from hers and went for it. My smile was so wide I could feel the air rushing through my teeth as I virtually flew through the store, eager to return the shoes' advances and shove them on my feet. Unfortunately, the cornflower satin sash on my dress was undone, and I tripped just short of the display. I cried, more out of frustration than from the rug burn on my knees. Mom was fuming, and just wouldn't understand as I tried to tug her toward the shoes. Couldn't she understand that I was vexed, under the spell of those sparkling wonders with three tiny, shimmering rhinestones on the buckle? We needed to be together, and she was all that stood between me and months of sheer happiness, reveling in their beauty. I knew then that, eventually, I'd find a lifetime of bliss with a perfect pair.            There is a problem, though. I could never be faithful. My inner urge for variety and betrayal would nag at me, and I'd always be involved with a handsome tassel-loafer, or off trysting with a fly-by-night espadrille that drifts in and out of fashion like political activism. At home, I'd be torn between my faithful dressy heel and my desire to sneak away for a fleeting romance with a scarlet, stiletto dancing shoe. That would definitely be just a one-night stand. As lovely as they'd look with my fringed red dress, hours of dancing in four-inch heels would make my affections falter quickly. Alas, I am a fickle mistress.            Eventually, I'd beg my pumps for forgiveness. At first, they'd shy away, lecturing me on the spectacle I'd made and the embarrassment we'd have to endure at the races next week. But eventually I'd win them over. I'd buy a calf-length wool skirt with a kick pleat that they'd die to be seen with, and we'd nestle into our comfy shoebox once again.