Rosemarie Pepper

Shoes For The Barbie Inside

I'll admit it, advertising works on me. I purchased
a pair of Candie's, those awful shoes from the
seventies which I managed to avoid until
the nineties. They're human-sized Barbie
doll shoes: four-inch plastic wood-look heels and
nothing keeping them on your feet but a wide
leather strap.

The shoes are a mugger's dream. Who could
run in those things? Imagine screaming,
"Hey! Gimme my purse!" to the high-pitched
sound of "slap slap slap" against your feet.
Bystanders would suppress their giggles and
secretly believe that you deserve it.

But there I was, with a straight face, asking
the guy at Macy's, "Do you have these in a ten?"
He brought me the pure black pair with the
updated modern chunk heel, and I was giddy
with delight. Bonus: this style cost about a
third of the couture price.

I don't know what made me do it. Maybe it was
the insipid magazine ad campaign with
Jenny McCarthy in her orange Candie's,
white cotton panties grazing her calves,
as she pretends to read stock quotes while
sitting on the john.

Or was it the couture styles, guest-designed
by Betsey Johnson, Anna Sui and Vivienne Tam
at the bargain price of $125? You too can have
little glitter hearts, honking silver studs,
or sheer plastic leopard encasing your
pedicured feet. The pale blue beaded pair
is gorgeous; it's a shame you can only
afford one shoe.

I stood there in the Macy's shoe department,
suddenly six foot three, gazing in the mirror,
convinced that I needed them, the perfect
summer shoes. What ease I would enjoy, flirtily
kicking them off under the table in restaurants,
going defiantly shoeless in movie theaters. How
sexy I would be with newly elongated legs.

I brought them home, put them on, and did
the dishes. I decided I would wear them to a
party that night. They were going to look great,
and black goes with everything. I was at once
glamourous and fabulous even in the kitchen.

Then, after ten minutes of standing, I was in
abject pain. My feet and my calves learned a
new definition of suffering.
The thrill was gone and the shoes went back to
Macy's. I am now back in my sturdy, wearable,
action-height heels of only 3 inches, thankful
that footbinding died out a hundred years ago.

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