The Cable Girl
Personal Essays & HumourIf The Shoe Splits*
Image by Rebecca Storm
Most of the shoes I own are second-hand. Call me gross, but I am a scavenger at heart, and although I can’t afford 400 euro boots, I might be able to afford a somewhat scruffy lookalike. The Vinted app is my main enabler, giving me unbridled access to the wardrobes of grand dames across Europe. These women ship their unwanted tat to me in empty champagne boxes, and I have never had more of a spring in my step. Sure, there’s a chance I’ll end up with something resembling beef jerky, but I would say I have been pretty lucky with my acquisitions. Until recently.
It happened with a pair of heeled leather sandals I found in the flea market. I know, “the flea market”. Probably not the best place to find shoes. But they were 5 euros! The leather was in perfect condition! The sole felt a little bit sticky, but I thought all they needed was a good scrub and they would be good as new.
As a precaution, I took them to a local shoemonger after purchasing. Actually, I took them to three. They all but laughed me out their shops. “These shoes belong in the trash!” one of them said after an ungenerous five seconds of examination. Clearly these men wouldn’t know real fashion if it booted them in the shins. I snatched my sandals back and marched home indignantly.
Some weeks later the company I worked for was invited to attend an exclusive art gallery opening. It was Spring, so warm enough to get away with open toes. I slipped my sandals on and strutted towards the S-Bahn station feeling pretty smug, like I had just cheated on a test and gotten away with it. I got about 100 metres down the road when I suddenly felt the ground move beneath me. I tripped and looked down to see a heap of black crumbs around my ankles. Who left all this chocolate cake on the pavement? Then I realised: I was the chocolate cake. My heels had disintegrated. The shoes were dead.
I would like to point out several embarrassing elements to this moment. Firstly, the breakdown happened directly outside a busy shop door. Automatic doors parted in front of me like stage curtains, inviting customers to attend my one-woman shit show. Several gave me quizzical looks, wondering why someone who was so dressed up seemed to be standing in a pile of potting soil. Secondly, there was, now that I looked, a long trail of black dust stretching down the white concrete behind me. This basically created a long arrow that pointed everyone else’s attention towards me. There was no way I could clean things up- the black crumbs were everywhere. All I could do was tear the leather straps off my toes as quickly as possible (this was fairly easily done) and hobble over to the nearest bin.
Thank God I had the foresight to bring an extra pair of sandals with me. Or even better- thank God this had not happened in an art gallery. I can just picture it now. All of Berlin’s designer-clad creative elite curling their nostrils as I rush to find a dustpan before someone mistakes my wardrobe malfunction for an art installation.
You may think this experience has changed me, but you would be wrong. What can I say, I love a bargain. I am, however, much more cautious about the shoes I go for. Every pair gets a good wringing out and a trial tap dance before they leave my apartment. If I’m ever unsure, I make sure to carry an extra pair of flip flops in my bag just in case.