Confessions of an Italian Shoe Lover

by Sandy Gregory, CITM

This story is about a subject that has, only recently, become close to my heart ... and feet.

Italian shoes.

For a long time, I thought the obsession with elegant shoes was the indulgence of a select class of actresses and socialites picking around in spike heals with grimaces of pain on their faces in the name of fashion. I was a Colorado girl, who of course valued hearty “sensible togs” to get me up the hill. My fashionable sister-in-law, strolling around in her size-5 heels, would wince at my Uggs, my Tevas and especially my MBTs (Massai Barefoot Technology! Note that if you wear them, you will soon have the body of a tall, emaciated aborigine.) She didn’t understand that my feet should be comfortable. Period. Fancy shoes: I didn’t see the value; didn’t see the reason. That is, however, until I happened into the Nero Giardini shoe store in Rome …

I needed a pair of dress shoes for the dinners on my tour, so I popped in to take a look. From the corner of my eye, I spotted a neutral-colored suede sandal with a platform heel and a flower pattern on the toe. “These would do, probably match everything I had,” I quipped. When I put them on, however, they did more than just “do.” A change began to come over me. I started to feel a slight tingle in my toes. I felt taller, longer, leaner. Within minutes, I transformed from a jock with an athletic lumber to a swan gliding above the ground. I wasn’t just walking, I was flowing. I felt beautiful and sexy. Strong and powerful. And wow, these shoes were comfortable. I was literally swept off my feet. It was a Cinderella moment.

You cannot deny the power of the shoe.

Soon I was tapping into my inner Carrie Bradshaw. I began dreaming about shoes. Beautiful shoes. Sexy shoes. Gorgeous Italian shoes made of lush, luxurious fabrics and leathers. Shoes that combined fashion and style with comfort and durability. How did they do that?

Soon people began to notice. My guests asked me where I shopped. I eagerly took them and vicariously lived their thrill. I stalked unknowing Italian women, studying their choices and learning their skill. I began scouring the stores looking for my next find: genuine snake skin sandals ... hand-made and perfect. Red heels ... so simple, so very right. I horded my tips and counted my Euros. Could it be done? Yes, next week. Who needs to eat! Besides, I can find the deals. I just need more time!

Ti amo! Ho bisogno di te! Io voglio te! (I love you! I need you! I want you!)

Who could say if this addiction was manageable, controllable, or even understandable?

Then came the intervention.

One day, as I was saying goodbye to my guests, one gentlemen held out his hand with an envelope. (Tips: never expected, always appreciated). He kindly wished me the best and good fortune to my two boys in college. At that moment reality set in: Oh yea, tuition. Kinda forgot about that. I quickly realized I needed to get myself together and vowed to manage my addiction. One day at a time.

It’s ok. I’m fine now. I know that shoes will always be there for me, just like a good friend. They will never judge me or let me down, and will always lift my spirits. But right now, Italian shoes are an extravagance that should be left to the fashionistas. I need to focus my efforts on the more practical.

... scarves.