“Take a walk in someone else’s shoes" is a cliche I grew up hearing a lot. “I do that all the time” I’d respond in my head.
I remember sitting on the carpeted floor of my mother’s bedroom gazing up at the section of her closet that housed her shoes, my eyes wide. With such caution, I would delicately take each box off its spot on the shelf and place it in front of me. Like Christmas day, I would open their lids, unwrap the tissue paper, and gracefully slide on each strappy sandal, stiletto, and cowboy boot. I would roam around my house in these too big shoes, trying not to trip, and play pretend being different characters. “These will all be yours someday, Tabby,” my mom would say to me.
Though I appreciate the green eyes and freckled nose, the best thing my mother ever gave me were feet the same size as hers. A decade after growing into her footsteps, I realized just how true her words ring. Everything of hers is mine. I am her and she is me, just the way I like it.
A few months ago, I went on a weekend trip to New York City. 24 hours there, I packed 5 pairs of shoes, averaged 2.5 outfit changes per day, bought 1 more pair while there, and will take 0 criticism for being an overpacker because I wore every single pair. In my sneakers I get to be a casual college student, a mysterious supermodel celebrity in my high heels, my father's daughter in my golf shoes, a successful businesswoman when in loafers.
I’ve now taken many walks in many of my mother’s shoes and have adopted my own definition to this turn of phrase. Rather than to help you understand who the owner is and how their perspective works, these borrowed shoes help us understand who we are- in relation to their owners, in relation to the world, in relation to every aspect of ourselves. Humans are multifaceted, and though we may have our “everyday sneaker,” I think we should all make more of an effort to try out new styles every once in a while (if for no other reason than to confirm that we hate the way a cork wedge sandal looks).
But most importantly of all the characters my collection allows me to play, on the days when I’m sporting the chocolate brown Italian leather boots that have their special spot on the top shelf of my own shoe closet, I get to try to be my mother. I get to be creative and weird and cat obsessed and drink too many cups of tea at night and meet the world with unimaginable amounts of grace. And everytime I feel scared or not good enough, I remember that I’m just not wearing the right pair of shoes. I wore them on my first day of class this semester and whenever I needed to have a bit of home with me. Though she’s all the way back in California, I still get to have my mom with me every step of the way supporting me as I move through the world.
“They’re just too good to not keep in the family,” she’d explain to me, gesturing to her thoughtfully curated collection of footwear, some of which are decades older than I am. With distinct precision, she had the ability to remember exactly where, when, and with who she had bought each pair with. New York City Christmas Time- 1998- My grandmother, her mother. Malibu Country Mart- 2009- her best friend from college. Funky thrift store in Cole Valley of San Francisco- 2015- an ex boyfriend. London- last summer- me. Each sole held memories, and every step collected more. I can’t wait for the day I can explain the origin of each of my own pairs to my own daughter. What a lucky girl she’ll be to inherit the fruit of my shopping addiction.
P.S. If anyone reading needs a justification to go on a new shoe shopping adventure with your best girls, think about me, think about how these memories might be cherished by your own daughters one day and about how someday she might just be able to make her own as well.
Comments