Standing on the Threshold of a Men's Shoe Dept.

I cannot trod the hallowed halls of the power wall one more day with those sorry excuses for worn-out shoes I've been wearing, shoes that resist my attempts to brush or polish them, three pairs of shoes chosen one heady day in the spring of 2000 when the dot-com boom was in the air and a new world was rising from the ashes of the bricks and mortar and we'd never wear those fuddy-duddy wingtips again and everyday was casual day and I boldly clad my feet in the footwear of a new generation.  No, I need new shoes now.

But they will push that trendy stuff on me, and people will notice what I'm wearing, and they will make comments to me, comments that suggest that all along they noticed my sorry excuses for worn-out shoes but they were too polite to say anything, like when you've got a chunk of spinach stuck in your teeth and no one says anything or, worse, that they're noticing me now, that I'm not invisible, which will just make me feel even more self-conscious than I already am, if that's even possible, and boost my already dangerously-elevated discomfort level with life.  I mean, if I'm not comfortable in my own skin will I be any more comfortable in some dead animal's skin?

And what if that trendy stuff is last year's trend, if I end up getting talked into pirate buckles or square toes or clogs or bowling shoes or some other ridiculous designer's conceit, and I wear them long enough to establish firmly in everyone's mind that I am a slave to fashion and, worse, I have absolutely no idea what I am doing and, worst of all, that I have allowed commissioned shoe salesmen who reek of cigarette smoke and who strain the seams of their poorly-cut suits while wielding their shoe horns, their slicked back hair doing a poor job of hiding their bald spots, to so completely bamboozle me that I not only paid top dollar for yesterday's crap, I'm wearing it for all to see.

Or I will settle for those grandpa shoes that add twenty years to my appearance and cause me to shuffle down the hall, downcast, burdened by these daily reminders of my inability to stretch or reach for anything that might, just might, take me out of my comfort zone, a zone, I might add, that's looking more and more like one of those sink holes in Florida that swallow entire houses whole, except in my case it's swallowed the effervescence from my life.

Or perhaps my world will start spinning as box after box surrounds me and it starts getting stuffy as they keep stuffing shoes onto my feet and marching me up and down the hard floor to see if they fit and I end up at the register with these huge bags filled with shoe boxes and all I want to do is get the hell out of there and all I have to do is hand over the plastic and scrawl my name and it's only when I get home and collapse on the foyer and my wife comes to revive me and sees the receipt for thousands and thousands of dollars of shoes that I realize I've been had.

And there's always the possibility that my real or imagined color-blindedness will once again send me home with a pair of new shoes I thought were brown but that, upon closer inspection under the revelatory GE Reveal 60 light bulbs in my closet will turn out to be that orange color again, but as my wife cackles with glee at my repeated stupidity and I defensively insist they're medium-brown or maybe cordovan and I insist on wearing them just to prove her wrong and then I look down one morning while standing outside my office and realize that, yes, I've been wearing orange shoes and no, no one's commented but yes, everyone must have noticed for how often do you see a man wearing orange shoes in the office? 

Or will I keep things simple and easy by buying three pairs of the same model shoe in different colors (this time studiously avoiding the orangey brown shade) only to realize, after wearing them a few weeks, that they are tearing up my heels and despite my best efforts will continue to do so without respite and meanwhile the shoes are showing all sorts of scratches and marks and I cannot get them to look decent but they're only a month old and I realize I've made a horrible terrible mistake and that I should have taken them back to the store, not that I would ever take them back for fear of the embarrassment it would cause me to admit in public that I cannot be trusted to do something as simple as buy myself shoes and so I will serve another five year sentence without parole with these shoes until they're literally falling apart and the mortification of being seen in them outweighs the terror of buying new ones.

And then I shall find myself standing on the threshold of a men's shoe department thinking these thoughts all over again.

Comments

[khh]

Ah yes, the shoe dilemma. I say find someone who had bought a recent pair of shoes that have slight wear on them and take them. That way you'll have upgraded your shoes without people even noticing them. Of course, finding the right size feet of the person to get them from might be difficult, but I am sure that after a few attempts a proper shoe size can be found unless you have either gigantic or small feet.

[DarkoV]

While your orange shoes may have been a cause for delight and even a cackle from the wife (and, honestly, isn't sartorial disaster a price worth paying for a cackle? Cackles are just not easily come by these days, what with PC-ness even invading our mode of entertainment expression), they do not soound so ridiculouos. In a recent New Yorker, a piece on a Czech shoe scientist revealled that our ancestors had the right idea when it came to providing comfort and proper care for our feet. When they defrosted that frozen hunter recently discovered in Austria, they found that his shoes were ideal for what shoes are intended for, namely moving about. Seems that a mix of different animal hides combined with a sole stuffing of hay or grass (which is also easily replaceable/renewable) was an optimal combination of providing traction, comfort, and warmth. The scientist even tested them out by climbing some seriously high mountains in the Czech republic.
Now, I'm not suggesting that you should be sidling down the power wall corridor with hay sticking out between your toes (although a precedent would you be setting!), but orange shoes do sound a tone lower than some of the alternatives.
Me, I've got the wide feet normally associated with trolls, hobbits, Slavs, and homemade wine-makers. So, I get all of my shoes at Zappos.com, since they are the only place that offers widths for the Paleolithic kind of guy. I've been happy with all of my purchases, especially the ones that I returned, at no charge to me for shipping or returning. I get to order them in the comfort of my hovel, do not have to deal with the slick-backed sales folks, receive the sheos in a matter of days, tromp around in them to assure their fit, and send them back, whenever, if the wife's guffaws (as she is the self-appointed arbiter of taste) get a little too loud.
Personally, though, sounds like those animal skins and hay shoes would really go over well at your place of employment. One added affect of the shoes? The hay/grass tends to pick up and retain odors quite well; an added bonus if you want to be sitting in your office and be left...alone.

[Searchie]

Of course the Manolo, he has the answer for you:

http://men.shoeblogs.com/2005/01/shoes-for-man.html

http://men.shoeblogs.com/2005/02/mephisto.html

http://men.shoeblogs.com/2005/01/shoes-for-poor-boy-who-wants-success.html

Trust the maestro.

[Waterfall]

I got hideous red imitation bowling shoes for Christmas. They are awful but very trendy, and I am constantly being complimented for my good taste in shoes. It is indeed a confusing world we live in.

[stephenesque]

I realize the great difficulty and confusion that you - as a self-confessed "mandal" wearer - must face when confronted by the beckoning flourescent lights of your local shoe emporium. However, I find that a no-nonsense pair of gleaming oxblood wingtips are suitable for all occasions that don't require a black suit. Also, sand-colored desert boots by Clarkes are an absolute must have. Anything without laces is for kids and faux Italians, so avoid at all costs.

[e]

Hmm. This is not a problem familiar to women. Sorry.

[The Happy Booker]

And while we're on the topic of men and their shoes...can I link to your dilemma in my new blog? xxx, The Happy Booker

[Outer Life]

Ms. Booker, you may link to my dilemma. You may even make fun of my dilemma at my expense, mocking me and my pretentions, excerpting my words as a cautionary example of the unhappy outcome when one blends outrageous conceit, total ignorance and unbounded narcissism, in the process effectively demonstrating my utter depravity and the futility of my blog; yes, you can do all this and more, for there is nothing I wouldn't do for the writer of a new weblog. Link away!

[Happy Booker]

Dear Mr. OL: You are a prince among men. Many thanks. The Happy Booker

[kmsqrd]

Ah, I understand the pains of trying to find the correct shoe. Much luck in that, I'd give hints but my 2.5's require traversing an entirely different shoe problem. About a year ago I decided I'll have riding boots, Birks and one pair of strappy sandals and call it a day. It's worked out well so far.