If the shoe fits . . . she buys it.

August 23, 2011

I was appalled to read recently where women judge men not by their chiseled good looks, nor by their iron-clad abdomens. Neither are they swayed to swooning by a keen sense of humour nor straight teeth nor the bulge in the pants that indicates a wallet fat with banknotes.

Nope. Women, apparently, judge men by their shoes.

Which would explain why no one is lining up to seduce me. Well that and the fact I’m married. And old.

Shoes, I readily admit, have never ranked very high on my personal priority list. They’re good for keeping my socks dry and my feet clean and, um, well, that’s about it, right?

I currently own a pair of year-old running shoes that I bought in Las Vegas, a pair of hiking boots that I save for winter and then never actually summon the energy to bend down and dig out from the back of the closet, and a pair of black dress shoes that are reserved for weddings/funerals/job interviews and so still look new.

I will confess to trying to keep up with foot fashion, during a time I like to call my Young and Foolish Phase.

I once owned a pair of “motorcycle’” boots whose unfortunate demise came during a tour of Europe when the sudden loosening of one heel nearly deposited me in a Venetian canal.

Later in the ’70s, prompted by an attraction to a towering young miss, I invested in a pair of boots with elevated soles that saw me at risk of snapping ankles and neck every time I teetered around in them.

My shoe shortage is in direct contrast to Viking Woman who, the last time I bothered to look, possessed the exact same number of feet as I do, and yet has this strange urge to amass a huge collection of footware. And by huge, I mean at least 20 pairs, if you can wrap your brain around that extreme excess.

It must be an estrogen thing. How else to describe this tragic inability women have to just say no to their feet.

And, of course, it’s never just the shoes. I’ve spent countless hours wedged into a plastic chair, fondly reminiscing about my bachelor days, while Viking Woman ogled the latest fashion offering in stitched leather. Only to be told, at the end of this lengthy exercise, that now she needs matching accessories, starting with a purse.

All of which makes raises the question as to what it was that attracted her to me in the first place. Maybe I looked like a patient man, one who would endure her foot foibles without a whimper of protest.

Or maybe she took one look at how I clad my lower extremities and knew straight away she’d never have to worry about losing me to another woman. As improbable as it sounds, she was absolutely right.

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