the pain of pale blue

I've never given much thought to shoes. To me, they've always been sort of like underwear: you just put 'em on and forget about them, as long as they are black and don't malfunction. And, despite me writing about them here, that's not about to change. But that of course only applies to MY shoes.

When it comes to other people's shoes, however, I am again and again horrified, especially here in Munich. When I lived in Hamburg, people seemed to know how to wear the right shoes, and especially not to wear some confusing color that has nothing to do with the rest of what they have on. Munich women, and some men as well, are Wunderkinder at wearing a dark outfit with white or pastel shoes. The men seem to have a penchant for wearing grey suits with BROWN shoes. It is mind-boggling. Or maybe I should say mind-bloggling. Whatever.

When these uninformed folks happen by, I see nothing but shoes. No legs, no torso, no head. Just shoes, very wrong shoes. It is honestly painful, and all the more so since they seem to be fully oblivious to it all. They just strut right along, happy as they can be in their bad, faulty shoes. It leaves me in despair. Gallons of despair. So many unresolved questions pop into my brain that they trip over each other. How did that person get to be that age and yet never learn about the power of shoes, and particularly the very negative power of the incorrect shoes? Did no one ever tell them the truth? Did they hear truth but simply refuse to ignore it? Do they lack the money to buy the right shoes? Did their mother wear the wrong shoes her entire life as well? Is it a genetic flaw? Is it beyond cure? Is it such a high heel to climb (forgive me)?

Oh me. I just close my eyes and hope for the best, hope that those feet will take those shoes beyond my eyesight by the time I count to 10. Hope that the next pair that comes along fits my eyes.