A Day In The Life Of…A SHOE


Courtesy – Google

I loved English classes back in school – especially the essay writing which opened up new doors to my imagination every time. A recurring topic which occurred over the school years was “If I were a ______ for one day”. Taking cue from the long forgotten autobiography style writing, I’ve started this new series titled “A Day In The Life Of..”. Who knows what I may turn into next! A cat, a dice, a bottle or a hose pipe? Stay tuned.

Oi! Look down here. Yeah that’s right. Lower…lower…a bit to the left…almost there…almost there….NOOOOO!!!!

Once again I have been ignored. This time in favour of the strappy blue bitch on the third rack. I mean, seriously, do you even care a bit about me? I knew I was destined to be better – and you unfailingly prove me right every time you cross over from me to another pair of stilettos, pumps, wedges and all those fancy pieces of footwear. 

I still remember the day I was being made. Which also happens to be the day I lost faith in shoe-manity (Like humanity. Don’t raise that brow – shoes have feelings too!) The finest sheet of leather spread out as the maker began measuring me. I couldn’t see the markings, but boy did that pencil tickle! I imagined being made into a fancy bag with a smooth finish, perhaps with trinkets on my handle to announce my arrival. Or maybe – wait a second, this guy was cutting the leather all wrong for a bag. Oh, maybe I was a satchel or something. A sling bag? Or a hat? Or a…no no no no!  The rounds of an eyelet, the tongue forking out, the curve of the toe cap…I was a SHOE!

And I didn’t like it one bit.

The horrors of my birth are now washed away by the renewed horror of continuous dismissal at the hands (feet) of my owner. Ok, I do admit to giving my owner’s feet a jolly good squeeze when she first wore me (because I WAS STILL UPSET ABOUT MY SHOENESS) But hey, that was ages ago. You can’t go around holding a grudge for so long. Especially when my partner is the ultimate symbol of shoe-y perfection.

My owner is some kind of shoe fanatic. From my knee-length friends to the flat brethren, we live like one happy shoemmunity….till the doors open and it is Judgement Day. Which of us will be worn today?

I’m sure I won’t be. One mistake has caused me a life of longing, waiting around and pretending to be happy (“Yay! At least I don’t have to splash in muddy water or bear a stray drop of alcohol on my shiny body”, I say with a fake smile).

I have made peace with my existence as the accessory to the lowest part of the human body. But it seems as though it is too late now. I feel sad for my partner, who is suffering for no mistake of hers. We look the same, yet are so different. She broods in the extreme corner of our rack, while I join the furor of a shoe orgy every time the door to our rack closes.

Both of us are nursing our wounds, albeit in different ways. The wounds of rejection.