I’d rather go barefoot

My wedding shoes made my feet bleed. Not that they were stilettos, or narrow, or flashy. They were solid white dress-up shoes (not pumps, never pumps). My mother sewed a lovely, simple dress, and I didn’t wear a bra. If I’d known how my breasts would sag after three children, I’d have worn a bra at twenty-one. I did think marriage was serious enough for real shoes, the first and only white dress-up shoes I’ve ever owned. Serious enough for lipstick too.

Dick and I took a nap after the wedding brunch. When we were dating and smooching on the couch, careful not to move against each other, I never guessed I’d feel so awkward once those shoes were off. Or that I’d even notice traumatic arterial damage. Dick wasn’t very interested in my gaping wounds. And I soon forgot all about my treacherous shoes. Until the honeymoon was over and and we fought in our tiny student apartment. I read that the Communists in Russia allocated 175-square-feet to each adult; maybe we should have finished school in Moscow.

I returned the wedding shoes. It was an easy return: I still had the receipt, and the bright red stains embarrassed the clerk more than me. Though I really should have been ashamed to return yet another pair of ruined shoes. When you’ve got the easy-bleeder feet, you should learn to be more careful.

My jelly shoes, the shoes I saved for weeks to buy when I was nine-years old, made my feet bleed. Mom said those jelly shoes were a fad, as if that should make them less desirable rather than more, and impractical, and most likely uncomfortable. I knew I would die if I couldn’t have a purple sparkly pair. Mom wouldn’t buy them for me, but she did drive me on my fifteen-mile shoe pilgrimage.

Last week I saw my sister’s husband for the first time since he left her. Only I didn’t really see him; I couldn’t look at his face, or his body. I stared at his shoes. My sister wore a puffy princess dress with tulle and beading for her wedding seven years ago. She was beautiful. Young, feminine, happy, and I know she wore a bra. Probably high heels, though her husband is not much taller than she is. I’ve got three kids; she’s got three kids. We both thought our marriages would last forever.

I want my sister to think of herself, to protect herself, care for herself. I want her to get some Jessica Simpson boots and walk all over that rat-turkey, yellow-belly skunk. I want her to listen to her favorite Cherie Call song and realize she doesn’t want to walk in somebody else’s shoes any longer. But my sister doesn’t have easy-bleeder feet. She has a tender, tough heart and I can’t tell her when it’s time to give up on making something fit. I want to say that if she hasn’t been able to break in her marriage shoes yet, it’s an impossible task, but it’s her life. Her marriage. Her heartbreak.

I am in awe of her patience, much as I’d rather go barefoot.

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The shoe inspiration came from Scribbit’s May Write-Away Contest. I’m not really a shoe person (for obvious reasons), so this was quite a challenge for me. Check out Tara’s shoe entry. Now there’s a shoe person.

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