Just Melanie

Melanie Wilkinson, Staff Writer

As I wormed my way around the maze of racks, my senses were alive.

The smells were of leather and new vinyl.And the sights were fabulous.

Heels, wedges, flats.

Browns, grays, colors, blacks.

Yes, I had passed through the Pearly Gates into what I call Shoe Heaven.

I’ve never thought of myself as being much of a girlie girl . . . until it comes to shoes. I don’t know why, but I just love them.

To me, there’s no point in buying clothes or putting on clothes if the shoes aren’t already in play. They are the base on which everything else is built.

I found a pair of black slip-ons that would work with dress pants — just enough heel to keep my hems from dragging but just enough boring that they weren’t too over-powering.

They were shoes for blending in, business camouflage if you will. Those were the Occupational Shoes.

Around the corner I encountered a pair of black boots with heels. They were perfect. Just enough heel to stretch out my gnome-like frame, yet just enough width that I could run in them without injury.

They were high enough on the calf to wear with skirts, skinny enough to wear under jeans. And just naughty enough to make me feel younger. Those were the Hoochie Mama Boots.

As I ran my hand over the many different choices, I thought about what I already own. My mind wandered to the shoe pile at home (because I’m too lazy to actually put them on the rack in my closet as it was designed).

There are the Husker Boots — flat, brown numbers with red zippers in the back. I call them the Husker Boots because of the unexpected red zipper and their wearability at Memorial Stadium because they’re comfortable, warm and slightly fun.

Moving on, there’s the Everyday Sandals — a pair of well-worn, pretty well shot, wedge sandals that don’t expose too much of my hideous toes yet open enough to give my questionable feet enough air to breathe.

There’s the Zumba Shoes totally dedicated to working out (although there’s no longer any arch support of any kind); the New Year’s Eve Shoes I wore in 1990 (it was a significant year); and the Hippy Flats that are really only a piece of hard cardboard attached to the feet with some weird beading (I must have been in a questionable mood the day I bought those).

During my tour of Shoe Heaven, I had a premonition that I would find something so spectacular it would warrant a shoe name never before used in my podiatric vocabulary. I already had a variety of styles, colors, functions. What on earth would I find that hadn’t been thought of before?

As I gazed across the room, I saw a gathering of women in a particular aisle. I had to head over, knowing there was some sort of attraction there. When I saw the “Clearance” sign I understood the magnetic pull, but also dreaded seeing the poor, sad little leftovers that no one wanted.

This picked-over collection would hold sizes that no normal woman can wear, broken straps, shoes with no mates. Yes, while cheaper, this aisle likely only held the rejected and tainted.

It was still worth a look, I reasoned, as I browsed among the leathered degenerates. Just as I imagined, there was a reason why the prices had been slashed.

Yet, with a hint of optimism, I waged forward, determined there had to be something special. That’s when I thought I saw a rainbow, a burst of light and singing angels at the end of the row. Something leopard-like caught the corner of my eye and I was on a mission to further investigate.

As I neared the red box that proclaimed Candies (which was my favorite brand of affordable shoes in high school), I spied something so spectacular I couldn’t believe it was real. And I was equally stunned that Candies still made shoes — I thought they went out of business the same year I registered to vote. But there they were. What I always fantasized about.

A pair of cheaply made, cheesy, leopard print, peek-a-boo sandals mounted on a high wedge of happiness! “So much to love,” I said aloud as I caressed the smooth fabric cover that blended the piece into one chunky monstrosity of delight.

The box was worn, indicating it had been moved around a lot as other women laughed them off as a prank. Its placement at the end of the last aisle indicated it was next in line to put be put down, if not claimed before the final hour.

But would they fit? How much did they cost? Could I save them from their demise?

The angels started another chorus as I joyfully saw they were my size — not a half too big or a half too small — and the price was just what I fancied as it came in at a mere eight bucks.

I snatched them up and slammed the lid, to keep the high frequency beacon of joy from calling too much attention to the prize at hand.

At the cash register, my eyes sparkled as I told my husband I’d made a discovery of a lifetime.

“These,” I said gleefully, as I removed their cover, “are my Good Day Shoes.”

Knowing my strange need to name my shoes, he inquired as to what made them Good Day Shoes.

“I just know that every time I put them on, I’m going to have a good day,” I said with all certainty.

That was three years ago now. As the leaves fall and we start to transition from summer to winter wear, I remember fondly the day my Good Day Shoes and I were first united. And they have proven to be exactly what I called them.

Each and every time I don the Good Day Shoes, other people ask me where I got those “interesting shoes.” They don’t say they are “wedges of happiness,” but it still makes my day to hear that they are at least “something to see.”

A former male co-worker jokingly told me that if he was a woman, he’d “put those shoes on and never take them off” — I never told his wife.

Sure, the Good Day Shoes have suffered along the way. There was an extremely hot day two summers ago when the cheap soles actually melted as I walked on a hot highway as we covered an event. It wasn’t until I stood still for a few minutes that I realized my feet had actually stuck to the pavement as the soles melted onto the asphalt.

I promptly scraped them off and the two of us continued on. Sure, I can now feel gravel poking into my feet seeing how I left three-quarters of the soles on the corner of Highway 34 and the bypass — but I don’t care. The cheesy leopard print is still a vibrant, wild situation that makes me smile every time I look down.

And yes, for some reason, every time I wear them, I can thankfully say I’ve never had a bad day. Now some people actually know to call them by name — and I have at least one co-worker who has a pair of Good Day Shoes herself.

In a world where really good days are hard to come by, I think we owe it to ourselves to find something to prompt one — even if it’s as silly as clunky animal print coverings for our feet.