I have 36 pairs of shoes in my closet, most of which I never reveal to the world. Most remain as reflections of a storied life, soled symbols of special occasions, high and low incomes, regretful loves, adventures with grave disappointments, and overseeing it all an ever-present love of design. There are a multitude of options, heels, flats, pointy toed, even pointier toed, vintage, modern, rubber, leather, cloth, and several pairs of Mary Janes, each of them playing at one time or another the leading role in this play called my life. Perpetually on a quest for that shoe that will even better define me, the other pairs are left hopelessly waiting for their next stint in the outer world withering because they can no longer speak to who I am.
I’m on an educational excursion to the Nieman Marcus shoe department with my mom to observe one of the players missing from my repertoire, Manolo Blahnik’s, by many considered the Cadillacs of the shoe world. I browsed around the department, empty except for three stiff salespeople and one exceptionally manicured woman, and found my pair of Manolos. They were black, slip on satin pumps with a low heel and a gracefully sculpted, pointed toe with just a hint of roundness at the end of which sat a small crystal embellishment to punctuate its elegance. Images of 1920's flappers danced across my brain and I lusted after them. With a quick look at the bottom of the shoe the spell was broken. Get real! At $695 they weren’t attainable. Going down the escalator

I sarcastically remarked to my mom “did you notice how no one asked to help us with anything?”

She semi-teasingly replied back “look at how we’re dressed, are you surprised?”

The bubble over my head was filled with resentment and I thought but didn’t say “I guess we weren’t manicured enough.”

As we descended, I shifted and sifted through the items in my 3 x 5 department on another excursion through the ebb and flow that defines my life. There are the punk movement inspired Doc Martens I wore for four years straight years right after I came back to Minneapolis from Japan and was treated like an outsider in my own city. I proudly wore the Docs as my fuck you shoes. Then there are the shiny, black oxfords that I bought as a student in France for 400 Francs when I couldn’t even afford to buy bread, but they made me look so chic and I had desperately wanted to blend in to the stylish French culture I regarded with a nagging infatuation. At the opposite end of the spectrum were some sweet old lady 50's pumps I found at a garage sale somewhere . Poor things, they’re dilapidated, but I still cherish them for their uniqueness. With a nod to pragmatism, I’ve at times allowed the weather to factor in to my footwear decisions. On the rare occasion I do zip on my ten dollar Kenneth Cole boots I walk the streets of Minneapolis with the proud tenacity of a naval commander inspecting the thousands of costumes I’ve realized in my mind.

Last and definitely least, there’s the obligatory pair of tennis shoes that I don for my weekly walks around Lake of the Isles while reflecting with my friend Alison. Other than my bras, they’re the one concession I’ve made to pure functionality. Afterwards, in the uncomfortable confines of my car I hurriedly change into that sense of self that has yet another story to tell.