Frivolous shoes
Nov. 29th, 2005 09:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kate_schaeferA few weeks ago, I asked Mary Kay to go shoe shopping with me. It's the Nordstrom sale, I said, let's buy shoes. That sounds like fun, she said.
I picked her up and drove to Northgate. "Is this your favorite Nordstrom's?" she asked. "Not particularly," I said. "Actually, I fear and loathe shopping, and this one just has the easiest parking." She blenched, but because she's very polite, she only blenched a little bit. Dear God, she was thinking, is there a polite way I can escape now? Damn, she was thinking, this madwoman has the keys. She got out of the car.
I hate shopping for shoes. I never shop for fun, or with company, but an uncharacteristic impulse came over me, and I ran with it. For months (for years, really), I've needed something to put on my feet other than hiking boots or sneakers, and I hadn't been able to make myself go shoe shopping alone; perhaps a companion would make it happen. Whenever I've looked at Mary Kay's feet, they've been well-dressed. I set aside all thoughts of bunions and orthotics. They went to the store with us, of course; one doesn't leave one's bunions at home, no matter how much one might wish so to do, and once the bunions are in the car, the orthotics had better get in as well.
We went into the scary temple of shoes and the stuff people wear above shoes. There were stuffy men's clothes to the right of us and casual men's clothes to the left of us, escalators straight ahead, and shoes to the left of the escalators. On the way to the shoes there were shiny frivolous women's clothes, cut black velvet and lace and rhinestones. We went right on to the racks of sale shoes, arranged by size, boots segregated from shoes.
I was daunted. I had been daunted all along, but now I was really daunted. Somehow I had hoped that the racks would be filled with all those fabulous shoes I'd seen on Mary Kay's feet rather than the shoes I'd always seen on the Nordstrom racks in years past. These were the same boots, the same shoes, that I'd always spurned before. I found a few to try on and caught the attention of a shoe salesman, a perfectly groomed, suited, polished guy who would have been overdressed for a bank job. He, in turn, caught the attention of a slightly less perfectly groomed, suited, polished guy who would have been correctly dressed for a bank job. The banker sneered at me and brought me a few pairs of ugly boots to try on.
I used to set the annual budget goals of guys like you, I thought, but that was at a real bank, and I wore suits and uncomfortable shoes in those days as well. The boots fit reasonably well, but they were ugly. What's the point of ugly boots unless they fit really, really well? The banker wasn't interested in my feet. He took away the shoes, and I was ready to leave.
Mary Kay walked past the expensive shoes. Shoes that had not existed moments before leaped into her hand. "What about these?" she said. They were frivolous shoes, sneakers made out of cows pretending to be leopards. I would not wear them in a million years.
"Okay," I said, "okay, I'll try them."
Mr. Polished flagged down another shoe sales expert, a cheerful woman who seemed to think it was not unreasonable of me to want to pay money to put something on my feet. "I'd like to try them on, too," said Mary Kay.
The cheerful woman brought me the ridiculous shoes and told Mary Kay there would be no shoes for her that day, but special messengers could be dispatched to fetch them at no extra cost.
I tried on the shoes. They were absurd. People would look at my feet and think that I was a fashion victim. People would look at my feet and think I had a closet full of shoes for every outfit.
A small child in a stroller pointed at my feet and laughed. Her mom looked at my feet and said, "Oooh, cool shoes." I decided that they were both right, and bought the shoes. So did Mary Kay.
The next night, I wore the shoes to the symphony. On the way to my seat, women pointed at my feet. "Cool shoes," they said. Nobody ever says "Cool shoes" when they look at my feet. It's fun; it's a laugh riot.
I am shallow and vain, but I now have cool shoes. Thank you, Mary Kay.
I picked her up and drove to Northgate. "Is this your favorite Nordstrom's?" she asked. "Not particularly," I said. "Actually, I fear and loathe shopping, and this one just has the easiest parking." She blenched, but because she's very polite, she only blenched a little bit. Dear God, she was thinking, is there a polite way I can escape now? Damn, she was thinking, this madwoman has the keys. She got out of the car.
I hate shopping for shoes. I never shop for fun, or with company, but an uncharacteristic impulse came over me, and I ran with it. For months (for years, really), I've needed something to put on my feet other than hiking boots or sneakers, and I hadn't been able to make myself go shoe shopping alone; perhaps a companion would make it happen. Whenever I've looked at Mary Kay's feet, they've been well-dressed. I set aside all thoughts of bunions and orthotics. They went to the store with us, of course; one doesn't leave one's bunions at home, no matter how much one might wish so to do, and once the bunions are in the car, the orthotics had better get in as well.
We went into the scary temple of shoes and the stuff people wear above shoes. There were stuffy men's clothes to the right of us and casual men's clothes to the left of us, escalators straight ahead, and shoes to the left of the escalators. On the way to the shoes there were shiny frivolous women's clothes, cut black velvet and lace and rhinestones. We went right on to the racks of sale shoes, arranged by size, boots segregated from shoes.
I was daunted. I had been daunted all along, but now I was really daunted. Somehow I had hoped that the racks would be filled with all those fabulous shoes I'd seen on Mary Kay's feet rather than the shoes I'd always seen on the Nordstrom racks in years past. These were the same boots, the same shoes, that I'd always spurned before. I found a few to try on and caught the attention of a shoe salesman, a perfectly groomed, suited, polished guy who would have been overdressed for a bank job. He, in turn, caught the attention of a slightly less perfectly groomed, suited, polished guy who would have been correctly dressed for a bank job. The banker sneered at me and brought me a few pairs of ugly boots to try on.
I used to set the annual budget goals of guys like you, I thought, but that was at a real bank, and I wore suits and uncomfortable shoes in those days as well. The boots fit reasonably well, but they were ugly. What's the point of ugly boots unless they fit really, really well? The banker wasn't interested in my feet. He took away the shoes, and I was ready to leave.
Mary Kay walked past the expensive shoes. Shoes that had not existed moments before leaped into her hand. "What about these?" she said. They were frivolous shoes, sneakers made out of cows pretending to be leopards. I would not wear them in a million years.
"Okay," I said, "okay, I'll try them."
Mr. Polished flagged down another shoe sales expert, a cheerful woman who seemed to think it was not unreasonable of me to want to pay money to put something on my feet. "I'd like to try them on, too," said Mary Kay.
The cheerful woman brought me the ridiculous shoes and told Mary Kay there would be no shoes for her that day, but special messengers could be dispatched to fetch them at no extra cost.
I tried on the shoes. They were absurd. People would look at my feet and think that I was a fashion victim. People would look at my feet and think I had a closet full of shoes for every outfit.
A small child in a stroller pointed at my feet and laughed. Her mom looked at my feet and said, "Oooh, cool shoes." I decided that they were both right, and bought the shoes. So did Mary Kay.
The next night, I wore the shoes to the symphony. On the way to my seat, women pointed at my feet. "Cool shoes," they said. Nobody ever says "Cool shoes" when they look at my feet. It's fun; it's a laugh riot.
I am shallow and vain, but I now have cool shoes. Thank you, Mary Kay.
Why Buy Shoes at Nordstroms?
Date: 2005-11-29 09:26 pm (UTC)Nordstrom, if the shoemaker makes them, reliably carries shoes in wide sizes. I have cubic feet, rather than the standard model, and unless I want to have really uncomfortable, sore, unhappy feet, I buy shoes that fit. I learned this from my mother at a young age and I think I could count on my fingers the pairs of shoes that I didn't buy at Nordstrom's.
I'd buy shoes at Macy's; I've seen some cute ones there, by good manufacturers, but Macy's never has the wide sizes.
Further secrets of buying shoes at Nordstrom.
Find the oldest salesperson on the floor. (This also works in the Nordstrom lingerie department.) For a short time, the Nordstrom salespeople were not trained in how to fit shoes - I think this has ended (I hope). But one of the oldtimers will really know what to check and will know about things such as the sandals that will come in next week from the manufacturer that always makes EEE.
When buying shoes, I tend to have the best success at the Bellevue Nordstrom. But I'm rather conservative about my shoes, so that may not work for everyone.
If you find a salesperson you like, get their card.
Re: Why Buy Shoes at Nordstroms?
Date: 2005-11-29 09:54 pm (UTC)There didn't seem to be any older salespeople on the floor when I was there, and neither of the salespeople checked my size, helped me put on the shoes, or checked to see if they fit. For serious shoes, I'll stick with Shoes N Feet at 8th & Madison, where all the salespeople do all those things and put customers on the treadmill to check how they walk as well. The only things wrong with Shoes N Feet are the name (should I interpret N to mean In or And? Or does it simply mean N, the murderer after M?) and the earnestness of the shoes. There is nothing earnest about those leopard-patterned shoes.
Most of the time, I want earnest shoes, but every once in a while, frivolity has to win. When I was young, frivolity won almost all the time. In my sober old age, my grandchildren believe I was never young, and that I am always serious. How can they think that? Bring on the silly shoes! Hand me down that lampshade! Break out the anecdotes from college -- well, never mind the anecdotes from college, but let me at least put on the silly shoes before I need to use the cane.