I rarely buy shoes.  If they feel comfortable, I’ll wear a pair as long as I can.

Twenty-eight years ago, on the first day of our honeymoon, my husband and I used wedding money to purchase Sebago loafers at an outlet store in Maine.  Both of us had spent the previous year walking around with holes in the soles of our shoes.  And in New Hampshire that meant cold, soggy socks and blue feet.  Between the two of us, we’d been in school for a million years and were broke, broke, broke. New shoes were a luxury we couldn’t afford.   Back then, I shined my old shoes so often, I wondered if some day I’d completely wear down the thinning leather and wind up polishing my socks.

In any case, our first joint financial expenditure after the wedding was to buy matching brown loafers. (I know, too precious. A very bad fashion statement.)  Regardless, we wear them to this day.  I’m telling you this so that you will believe me when I say that I rarely buy shoes. Now it’s not that I’m broke; it’s more that I’m lazy and hate to shop.

I’ve owned my clogs for eight years, maybe more.  I don’t have a wedding to mark that purchase date, so I’m not exactly sure.  The heels on my clogs have become so worn that I actually tip off of them as I walk.  A couple of weeks ago, when a fifteen percent coupon came in the mail, I took a deep breath and decided to buy new clogs.

The company hand makes the clogs which means you can’t just march into a store and demand, “Rustle me up a size six, please.”  These shoes vary so much within a size, you have to try several before you hit on the most comfortable pair.

The store was empty and the salesman accommodating, a good combination.  However, I felt like Cinderella’s ugly stepsister.  The man patiently took out one pair after another, too loose, too tight, a ripple in the leather.  Stacks of boxes piled up next to me on the bench.

I didn’t expect to have such trouble. I’d been spoiled.  From the moment I slid my feet into my former clogs, they’d felt as comfy as bedroom slippers.

We finally settled on a pair that seemed less painful than the rest, not awful, but not bedroom slippers either.  I figured I’d just have to break them in. “I guess I’ll take these.”

The salesman held another box behind his back, out of my sight.  “Would you consider trying on one more pair?”

“Of course.” I’m not a patient shopper, but why wouldn’t I?  The guy’s question confused me.

These clogs fit beautifully.  My feet sighed in relief.  Maybe not sighed exactly, but I know they would have if they could have. “I’ll take these. What size are they?”

The man gave me a guilty look.  “Well, I didn’t want to prejudice you against these.  They’re wides.   Some women would never consider buying a wide shoe.”

“Even if that’s what fits them?”  I was incredulous.

He shrugged using both his shoulders and his eyebrows, a full body shrug.  It made me think he saw a lot of this behavior: wides wishing they were narrows, wides in denial, wides with corns on their toes and eventually, wides with substantial podiatry bills.

How did I feel about being a wide?  I believe in comfortable shoe ware, no matter what. So being a wide would not dissuade me from wearing a wide.

Yet, I’ll have to admit the image of my dear departed grandmother, Noona, started floating through my mind.  Then again, maybe not floating, maybe trudging. She had a solid build and wide is also an adjective that would describe it.  She carried her girth proudly and on more than one occasion would warn me, “You too skinny.  You gonna die.”

She never understood the American obsession with being slender.  For her, it was a sign of poverty or sickness, neither a desirable state.    The only time my grandmother was ever pleased with my appearance was during my pregnancies: by the eighth month I usually resembled a bowling ball (my head) on top of a beach ball (my rotund body).

Maybe if I frequented shoe stores more often, I’d have had a better grasp of the psychological nuances involved in purchasing shoes.  And I will admit, I do harbor some anxiety about Noona’s genetic contribution to me, especially as I age.  However, as I’ve mulled this over, I’ve decided to stand by my principles:  wide or not, if the shoe fits, I’ll wear it.