What am I doing? I am shopping online, which is only my favorite thing to do in the whole world. Isn’t that dumb? I am not trying to toot my own horn or fart out a reville or something, but I have done some fairly incredible things in my life. I am able to pursue dreams and actually live them, do them, be them, but what is my true passion? It is deeply embarrassing to admit.
I like to put objects into carts and never check out. I just put imaginary things in imaginary shopping carts and basically imaginary shop. Online shopping isn’t by its nature very satisfying for me, at least not for the money that is spent. Obviously it is awesome to find something you really do need and you are able to order it online and save yourself a trip to the store, but usually I shop for things I don’t need. In fact I would be better off if I had less of these things (i.e. shoes).
I am looking for the perfect shoe that I most likely already have or doesn’t exist in the world except in the glorious glitter universe of my shoe imagination. It’s like the opposite of Cinderella. I’m not looking for the shoe’s owner. I am the owner, looking for the shoe.
I have no fairy godmother. I have a real mother, who also loves shoes and I remember her buying a pair in the 70s for $134.00 which back then for our family might as well have been $1,000,000 and totally feeling justified about the purchase and the pride and entitlement and enjoyment and self esteem that went into her decision to buy them was a terrific example for me growing up. for my mother, and now for me, the spending of money was stating simply, “I matter.” And that felt good. And it still feels good.
I have to go get my own glass slipper – which never seemed practical in my opinion. It seems like glass shoes would hurt a lot, because glass wouldn’t give like leather, and the friction would make them squeak loudly enough to sound like you were farting with every step. So I want a proverbial glass slipper, not an actual one. Also, clear shoes fog up in an unsettling way. I have a bunch of different styles and they all make my feet sweat appallingly and slurp when you take them off.
In my mind, the right shoes will solve all my problems. In the right shoe, I am made whole, entire. Nothing is missing. The shoe will bring me all here. The shoe is what I need. I have a shoe shaped hole in my soul and I want you to step in.
The original shoe wound happened on a visit to Rome. I was moved to tears by Bernini everywhere in the streets, but what truly transformed me was a pair of platform pumps encrusted with rhinestones huge and irregularly shaped and placed, giving the shoe the appearance of a broken mirror. It was a disco ball morphed into a chunky heeled platform pump with a thin buckled ankle strap like a halo on top of this angel of a shoe. I was already late and I had no time to buy them or even try them. I retraced my steps later and I couldn’t find the store again. I wondered if they had been some kind of shoe mirage, a footwear fever dream. Perhaps they were. I have been in pain ever since I saw those shoes but couldn’t possess them. I have been looking for them ever since.
I want to hunt, stalk, close in on and capture the shoe, so I will order the shoe, but by the time it comes days later in a neat Fed Ex box, the shoe’s appeal has diminished. That delicious moment of wanting could not stretch itself across even next day shipping, so how much do I really need it? Almost every time, I forget that I have ordered the shit, and it arrives as a reminder of my own fickle heart. It comes and I don’t care. And I never return anything because that would require me to have tape which doesn’t exist in my atmosphere. I have none of the real ordinary day to day stuff that everyone has. Yes I may have a pair of handmade and autographed manolo blahnik peacock feather mules that are too precious and holy to wear so instead they straddle the altar above my fireplace, but don’t even ask for scotch tape because I never have that shit. You need to stick something together? Forget it. You have come to the wrong house.