Shoes

Shoes tell a story. Many stories. Mine began with laced-up brown leather Oxfords for school, worn with thick white socks, tops turned down. I liked them. They were comfortable and practical.

A few years later, I was surreptitiously trying to cram my toes into my mother’s tiny black high-heeled evening pumps. I managed to wear them, for one date, submerging my pain in a big smile. But never again…

Shortly after that, it was the beautiful soft leather shoes made by Ferragamo in Rome. The “Olievia” was my favorite, a sleek pump with a moderate heel and a bow on the toe. They surely didn’t cost then what they do now.

And then came my all-time favorite: tall, white summer pumps decorated with red and blue triangles, bought on a rare shopping trip to a chic department store in Boston, an escape from the dreary college-boy stores in Cambridge. I hated to throw those pumps out when they finally gave way from use.

Now, to the great relief of my feet and my soul, I mostly wear boots—hiking or rubber, depending on how muddy the trails are—or sneakers, especially an orange pair with silver laces and zippers on the side.

But I haven’t quite outgrown the romance of beautiful shoes. My beige satin ballroom dancing shoes with the tiny twinkling bows on the straps accompany my weekly dance lesson: tango (American), waltz and foxtrot.

My favorite dances, and still my favorite shoes.

In Women dancing