Down There on the Ground

In a world where there is Carrie Bradshaw on DVD, Manolo Blahnik, endless coffee table books, Harper’s Bazaar, those strange Hallmark Store collectible sculptures, and thirteen-year-olds everywhere in Coach logo sandals, there is precious little room for a blog about shoes.

So, before I start mine, I will make you some promises.

I will not go on too much about their symbolic allure or tell you how women use them as mate snares, altitude adjusters, status cues, or weapons. And I will certainly not tell you which ones to buy.

What I have to share, on the other hand, is a story, one born in the depths of my own messy closet and continued on the sidewalks and in the office cubicles in a city that is obsessed, in one way or another, with shoes. In New York City, shoes are not just protection from whatever nastiness is spawning on the sidewalk or the things that keep you from being tossed from your favorite restaurant. Here, first and foremost, shoes are transportation. They are the things that get you there, that mark the rhythm of city pace, that are the ground level forced-air heat and air conditioning and support through the jungle of an American city.

For the story of your life, the everyday and the extraordinary, don’t just look back or ahead. Look down.