Shoes

INDIANAPOLIS, INDIANA - I can tell you the EXACT day that I started to care about footwear. And location, if you care.

First, you should know that I never cared much before that. I mean, I've loved looking at pretty shoes since I was little (by that I mean young, I'm kind of tall), but never realized what an important part they play in the crazy world of self-esteem.

My blog featured a little series titled "In her shoes" for the same reason I now love great kicks; very few women like the way they look. Complimenting one's choice of footwear is always safe and reliable.

When I was in chemo, and as recently as this February (when I had my mastectomy), people were frequently looking me up and down, and that was disconcerting.

Oh, you can hardly tell that's a wig? (Really, just by virtue of the fact that you've said that means you can tell. Thanks ever so.)

Oh, you can hardly tell you had surgery. Are you done, or are you going to have implants? (Ok, yes I opted for implants. And I'm actually all done. Again, by you asking I clearly didn't go with a satisfactory increase. Geesh.)

My defense mechanism? Shoes. If you've got some sweet foot candy going on, nobody ever looks at your ... well, anything really. It suddenly goes from a potential discussion of scar tissue, scarf tying or the pros and cons of silicone to something infinitely more yummy.

The quintessential patent-leather-ankle-tie-cork-wedge. Sky high and built for subterfuge. Here's to distractions, and the cancer patient's art of the ruse.