Barefoot in Portland

Shoes do not excite me. They do not call to me from their stair-stepping perches, which hug at store windows as I glide past. They do not whisper irresistible promises of sexiness and beauty, all to be mine with the purchase of one pair or five.
This happens to be one of the areas in which I part ways from the vast sea of females who daily fuel our economy with purchases of these fancy foot-coverings. I am pretty certain that when I look at a shoe, I am seeing a completely different image than what these women might see. Symbolically anyway. When I see an open-toed shoe, I am reminded of the ugliness of my toes and the lengths I will go to hide them from the world. When I see high heels I am reminded of my intense lack of coordination on anything taller than a sugar ant. And when I see a ‘dainty’ shoe I am reminded of how oddly-shaped my feet are and the vice that it would take to get my foot into something so narrow. All of this adds to my loathing of shoe shopping and is in direct correlation with why I care nothing for this particular accessory.
Despite these strong feelings, and at my own behest, I visited various shoe stores today, spending no more than about five minutes in each. This was just enough time to do the aisle walk-through with a periodic stop now and then to study a semi-promising shoe. Upon realizing that all of my sizes had already been lapped up in that promising shoe area, I would continue down the remainder of the aisle and walk out the door. Shoeless and apathetic.
Why did I subject myself to the strong scent of leather and rubber and rows of boredom and disappointment? There is a hole forming on the top of one of my work shoes. Not at the front of my shoe, mind you, the top of my shoe. How someone wears down the top of a shoe I will never know, but I have achieved the feat (or nearly) and am now forced to find my feet a new home. For years I have skated by as these Dr. Martens became more and more scuffed—until the black turned grey and the traction wore down to a smooth shine. But a hole on top? That is too much. Regardless of how comfortable these shoes are (slippers are not as comfortable) I cannot get away with that. Especially at a bank. I am actually surprised (and a little relieved) that I was not ‘talked to’ about my footwear at some point during their dilapidation.
So that was my goal today and it was firmly not realized.
Tomorrow I am going to suggest that flip-flops be added to our ‘acceptable clothing’ list. Everyone would see my ugly toes, but they wouldn’t be crammed into a point, so I think they would look decent enough. Especially if I splashed some paint on them. We’ll see how that goes. Wish me luck.