My love of shoes is genetic, as I suspect it is with most women. From the beginning, my mother’s attention was squarely on my feet. If she had to pick between clean underwear and shoes that matched my outfit, suffice it to say she went for “the look” every time.

Me?  I understood, from the age of booties, the importance of being coordinated but I also believed my shoes needed to sound just right. 

My first shoe sound memory came from the simplest shoe of all – the feet in my pajamas. On my tippy toes, pajama feet turned into little, silent stealth bombers. Ah, the sounds of silence. I could sneak up on anybody. 

The next shoe sound my post-menopausal brain remembers was the most delightful clack of my hot pink and neon orange plastic high heels. My girlfriends and I would practice sauntering down the sidewalk without twisting an ankle for hours. We were louder than NASCAR on a Sunday afternoon. 

Then it was on to tap dancing with a shuffle-ball-change. Luckily, it’s something I still do well to this day; though tappin’ my way across tabletops has gotten me into some real trouble. 

My step into young womanhood came from my first pair of pumps. They had chunky 1-inch heels and their racket was a very un-lady like clump, clump, clump. Clump pumps.

Next, one savvy shoe manufacturer presented me with a sound I could only dream about; the classic clip-clip made by a pair of wooden Candies. These babies had 3-inch heels that not only made my legs look great, the boys knew I were coming – for miles. 

Unfortunately, the right pair of Candies combined with a tight V-neck sweater and bright red spandex pants leads to marriage, babies and sneakers. Sad, isn’t it? I ended up with a pair of sneakers that squeaked. Actually only the left one let out a wail with every other step. I promptly returned them which resulted in a nasty little brawl with a shoe salesman over the awful pair of “squeakers”. Luckily, it was pre-YouTube. 

When the I headed back into the business world, I found myself smack dab in the middle of a bunch of clackers. Granted 4-inch designer heels are expensive, but with a short skirted-business suit and a pair of those, I could really work a boardroom – if you know what I mean. 

The career ended about the time the bunions began and it was off to the country. Finally, I’ve found my shoe options have dwindled down to two. I only need cowboy boots and flip flops. It’s simply impossible to walk in heels on a driveway made out of caliche. 

The cowboy boots clomp. There is nothing lady-like about them other than they protect my pedicure and are great scorpion killers.  The flip flops? Their noisy slap-slap against the pavement scares off all the deer in the vicinity. 

Of late, I’ve noticed that going barefoot produces sounds too, though pop, crunch and crack was not really the look I was going for. 

I suppose all that’s left in my shoe world will revolve around the nursing home. As my mind heads back to childhood probably my feet will, too. I suspect I’ll end up in footed pajamas again only this time, instead of being silent, they’ll make a great squishing sound solely because my custom orthotics keep me “gellin”. 

Oh well. As I’ve always said, “If the shoe fits, hear it.” Of course that’s if I still can.

Mikie Baker
www.mikiebaker.com 

Copyright Medina Mikie, Ink. 2011