My name is Anna and I am a shoe addict. (Applause and murmurs of support now, please.) Though some may tut-tut and call me Imelda, I feel no shame. In fact, I’m quite proud of my footwear collection. My shoes are neatly organized by heel height and style, and I have them lined up on the ten shelves of my “shoe case”—an adjustable IKEA bookcase I bought a few years ago and painted purple to showcase my sandals, stilettos, and slides. I currently have fifty-six pairs.
Like many parents of a child with a substance-abuse problem, my folks want someone to blame. When I was a baby, my feet wouldn’t align themselves correctly, so I was fitted with plaster walking casts on both legs. My father blames the doctor, who may have traumatized me by removing the casts with a deafening electric saw. My mother blames that last pair of corrective shoes I had to wear, even to sleep in, for weeks after getting the casts off.
As a teen, I probably had a healthy eight or ten pairs of shoes, but the summer after my first year in college, I got a mall job at a shoe store called Précis. It was owned by the same company as The Wild Pair and was sort of its Euro-wannabe older sister. I loved being surrounded by all of those shoes. I remember the pleasure I felt when I’d take a brand-new pair out of its box for the first time, removing the tissue, examining the shoe, running my fingers over it, relishing the feel of an un-scuffed sole, the scent of brand new leather. I took full advantage of the employee discount that summer and left the job with five new pairs and a budding fetish.
Pandora’s shoebox had been opened.
Back in college, I was unable to shake that nagging attraction I had for every cute new pair I saw on display. I found arch-support in my roommate and good friend, Ali, a budding footwear junkie, and I have many happy memories of the two of us roaming Boston in search of a shoe fix. Luckily, our tastes were on the lower end, cost (and maybe even style) wise, and we usually stuck to such shops as Payless and Filene’s. I took another summer job, this time at The Wild Pair, and again, took full advantage of the discount. Actually I probably abused it by letting Ali share the joy too. By the time I graduated, I owned patent leather (or more likely, pleather) chunky sandal heels in red, peach, aqua, green, gold, silver, black, and white.
After college, my dependence graduated to the next price category. I started craving the Steve Maddens, the Chinese Laundries, and the BCBG Girls. Luckily, I had more money to spend on shoes—but not that much more—so I had to control the frequency of my shopping trips. I’m now averaging about six new pairs per year, which allows me to live—and keep a roof over my purple shoe shelf—as a functioning shoe addict.
Of course I am aware that the “shoe thing” is a bit cliché these days—thanks a lot, Carrie Bradshaw—but it does still hold some weight, so to speak. There have been times I’ve overindulged around the holidays or partaken in some emotional eating, and that extra five pounds or so, which can make all the difference in my fancy pants, won’t matter one bit when it comes to shoes. Nor would even fifty pounds, come to think of it, but I’m hoping I won’t test this theory!
Some people may look at my shoe shelves and see only the evidence of an accessory abuse problem. Me, I see the lovely arrangement of fifty-six unique beauties. There are my Romy and Michelle shoes: chunky aqua vinyl platform sandals with clear blue plastic piping. And then there are my Barbie/streetwalker shoes: super-high gold slides with a rhinestone heart connecting the two straps of leather over the toes.
