The news hit me as painfully as the stiletto heel that accidentally ground into my foot when I danced the hora at a wedding last week: Our favorite shoe emporium, roughly the size of the Pentagon, had closed, another fatality in “real live” shopping opportunities. I ran to break the news to my teenaged daughter. We stopped to bow our heads in a moment of silence. My batch of 10-dollar off coupons for the store were now just forlorn bits of paper, suitable only for recycling.
Given this level of disappointment over the untimely passing of a shoe store, you might assume I love shoe shopping. I don’t. At least, not when I’m with my daughter. Trouble’s afoot when we shop for shoes as a team, and the activity is often fraught with emotional complications worthy of an episode on Dr. Phil’s show, or, on a bad day, Judge Judy. My lovely daughter and I have a swell relationship in nearly every other area, but we have radically different tolerance levels for the duration of any single shoe shopping excursion.
For example, treading into shoe stores the size of a football field or larger, I feel bombarded by the profusion of pumps and peep toes, the surfeit of sling-backs, and bounty of ballet flats and boots. Some styles instill terror: whose idea was it to put menacing spikes on sandals? Are those things really pit bull collars, destined for Petco but sadly misdelivered? This visual assault makes me so dizzy that all I want to do sometimes is lie down and take a nap. Barefoot.
While I am fighting sensory overload, though, my daughter is just getting warmed up. She coolly surveys the landscape, assessing the quality of the leather and fabric prints, and plots her strategy. Part of that strategy involves thwarting my every effort to help her find a pair of shoes that she will not dismiss as ugly, old lady-ish, or gross.
The odds that she will find even a single pair of shoes to her liking among the thousands on display are slim enough, but disapproval of any pair is absolutely guaranteed if I, her mother, am insane enough to suggest a particular style. Her good manners will compel her to accept a pair I proffer, but her offer to try them on has a listless tone. She is too polite to admit that she’d really like me to return to the aisle I came from, where the other “sensible shoes” are waiting for other style-challenged patrons like me.
And I have waited in those stores, sometimes for days, while my otherwise very lovable daughter will deign to purchase a single pair. Then I surrender my credit card, along with any brain synapses still firing accurately, barely getting out alive.
Despite my heroic and selfless efforts, she has accused me of suggesting shoes for her – a young, trend-conscious person – that I actually want for myself. “That’s not true!” I protest in self-defense. Unfortunately, my claim has been undermined repeatedly when I end up buying the very pairs of shoes that I originally had suggested for her and that she summarily rejected.
“You see? I told you that you wanted them for yourself,” she said when I sheepishly toted home two new pair of shoes: a cute everyday flat, and a low-heeled semi-dressy black-buckled number. “Just because you didn’t want them, why should the world be deprived of their simple beauty?” I huffed.
Last week, I thought I finally smelled victory when my daughter and I left Macy’s, each with one pair of shoes. But under the harsh light of reconsideration at home, she deemed the very same shoes that she had liked in the store a style error, and we returned them two days later.
To preserve our relationship, we have agreed to part ways in the matter of shoe shopping. We will continue to shop together for clothes, which is less partisan, as well as frozen yogurt. And if you’re looking for my daughter anytime soon, if she’s not studying or talking to her friends, you can find her online—on Zappos.