In collaboration with PASSIONS, VOICE OF ASIA is proud to present timeless articles from the archives, reproduced digitally for your reading pleasure. Originally published in PASSIONS Volume 44, we present this story on “Confessions of a Shoeaholic”, where the author struts her stuff.
I love shoes. Not those tennis ones, or boring flats, but the precarious, strappy, work-of-art, come get me shoes. You know the kind. They make a woman feel so sexy, that she can even get desirous of herself. They can also make her cry tears of pain sometimes, but there is a certain sweetness in that torture that women don’t mind at all. We try so hard to walk away when we see a shoe shop, but it never works. They summon us and though we fight with all our strength, we still enter, and walk away on a new pair, carrying ten more.
Why?
It is not really in the element of possession – I couldn’t care less about handphones, for example. I can’t remember how long I have had my Nokia – it works and that is all I care about. My BMW is great, but it serves its purpose, nothing more, nothing less. I love perfumes, but I can pass by bottles and bottles of perfumes without that seductive soft whisper that says… “you need me, you want me, come get me. You will regret not having me, tasting me, touching me… oh baby. Coooommmme geet meee.”
I hear this whisper all the time, all around places where shoes gather. They mock my weakness yet they know they need me too. They need me to survive, to move, to see the world. They need a host body to take over. I think it is a conspiracy. The Aliens have invaded us, their ruler a certain charismatic maverick who goes by the name Alexander McQueen. They are starting with women – because we are smarter, therefore preferable to men – and using shoes as their weapons of mass destruction.
They tease us with shoes of all shapes, sizes, colour, textures, designs and they scatter their central processing units (shoe shops) all over town, in every shopping mall, so that every time we turn, we see a new brand, a new design, a new colour combination that screams to be bought. We just can’t jam the transmission – we are utterly powerless. So we buy and buy and buy until we have closets that have encroached into kitchens and bedrooms and gardens. We still can’t stop buying. We work hard, save money, buy shoes. Our husbands leave us in utter disgust. We don’t care – we have shoes. Our kids alienate themselves from us. We don’t care – we have shoes. We don’t have place for the washing machine, television set, kitchen sink. We don’t care – we have shoes.
We shop in groups as hunter-gatherers, buying and hoarding until we lose all sense of value for money. And then, when we are at our weakest, no family or friends, the aliens swoop in, take us away to a planet far far away and make us slaves at their alien shoe factories, creating exciting new designs to entice more women to leave their men and come away and form a new Alliance of the Shoe.Weakened by messy homes and screaming kids who cannot be handled, lacking direction and sex, the disorganised men back home become embittered, lost and frazzled. They realise they cannot survive on beer, cars, football and bombs shaped like phallic symbols, and in that most dire, weakened moment of disillusionment, the aliens swoop in and conquer Earth.
Imagine this…
Barack tries to summon the troops, but Angela is out buying shoes. “To hell with saving the European Union,” she says. “I just want shoes. Comfortable, practical Louboutins. I’m German, you know,” she adds, rather unnecessarily.
He tries Down Under – same luck. “Get off my (sling)back,” screams Julia. “There are Ferragamos on sale. Go play with your big guns yourself, big daddy.”
Maybe more sanity up North? “It’s too cold to think, darling. I am warming myself with a pair of nice high heeled leather Choos,” purrs Johanna.
“Recession or no recession – a woman has to have her bare necessities,” emphasizes Mary as she smoothes down the fur on her Dolce Gabbana, holding a pint of Guinness.
Better luck with the Latinas? No, the disease has spread. The last we saw, hunter-gatherers Laura, Dilma and Cristina were having a shoedown at Balenciaga over chorizos and tortillas.
Prathiba refuses to cooperate too, saying, “Nothing comes between me and my Blahniks.” “No, no, no, no, Cavalli is better,” says her fellow hunter gatherer, Sheikh Hasina, fingering her newly acquired patent red Cavallis with barely disguised pleasure.
Barack shakes his head in agony and leaves them arguing. At least better fighting over shoes than territory, he thinks.
“Dalia, Roza, Iveta, what is happening to all your fellow leaders,” Barrack cries. “They are in love, Barry,” the ladies wink and smile in unison. ‘With what?’ poor Barrack asks. “Chanel!” they answer and point to the signature black and white pumps adorning their feet.
“Barack, baby, come here. Don’t worry your pretty head over such trivial matters. Relax, shop with me. See these beautiful, beautiful Valentinos? How can you think of war, when you see such beauty,” Jadranka smiles absent-mindedly.
“Kamala, Ellen…not you too?” he is afraid to even ask. But they don’t reply… they just point to the shopping bags that have a Medusa Head embossed on them. It is an unspoken whisper… Versace.
He runs and searches desperately for Micheline. “You, you have a history of being neutral. You cannot have succumbed. Please,” but he begins to notice that glazed over look, the satiated smirk, and he sees the Marc Jacobs. There seems to be no more hope.
Barrack turns in defeat, as Medusa seems to leer behind his back in toothless mirth.
He goes looking for Michelle, to lay his head on her shoulders and get some comfort. But she is out buying more Zac Posens. Totally disillusioned, he buys Sarah Palin a cup of coffee and tries on her shoes. Did a wise man not say, to know a person is to walk a mile in her shoes?
I even think I know where the alien sanctuary is – it is most probably in Finland. Together, Tarja and Mari will create a safe haven for all the aliens and infected women here on earth, until they get safe passage home.
I do ramble, don’t I? But that familiar unease is coming back. I know I am missing something out out. What? What is it? Gucci? Check. Got a brown pair recently. Weitzman? Check. Got three pairs. Love their black and red. Calvin Klein? Check. Venetta? Check. YSL? YSL? Yes, just got that bright orange pair that I had been coveting for a long long time. Prada? Oh most definitely check. Zanotti? OMG – I forgot to get that strapless wonder I saw yesterday. No, the stores have closed. No, no, no… what in the name of God have I done?
I will be at the stores first thing tomorrow morning. I will take an umbrella along to create body space just in case some nosy girl tries to edge in on me and get THAT pair before me.
Ok, got a plan. I know I can sleep tonight. Hang on, Alexander and your elves. I will join you all in a short while.
But for now, I can see through the conspiracy – you have planned it all so well. They wear us, we don’t wear them. A parasitic relationship, almost. A mutually agreeable take-over. A well thought out strategy.
So deliciously insidious.
Clever. It all fits, you see.
Like a shoe.
