When I worked for a dating service for executives and professionals in the 1980’s, the owner, Bud Chilson, opined that you could tell a lot about a person by looking at their shoes.
Bud’s view was not simply superficial, although it was true that he himself was meticulous about his own appearance. Rather, he observed the unspoken story each potential dating service client told via the personal care choices they made.
Shoes that were not shined or were down-at-the-heel conveyed a certain carelessness, he believed, which might generalize to other behaviors. This would elicit some counseling to increase our client’s success on the social scene.
My father, also from Bud’s generation, looked at shoes in an entirely different light.
His training as an orthopedic surgeon, including a residency at Kosair Crippled Children Hospital in Kentucky, oriented him toward assessments of posture, gait, and proper foot alignment. We four children were the beneficiary of this expertise, with the consequence that our shoes were what you might call sensible, and nothing like what the other neighbor-kids wore.
Yes, I owned Keds, but these were for gym class, or maybe for riding my bike.
But for everyday use, I was tightly laced into sturdy leather oxfords. Sometimes these were saddle shoes; other times, I was allowed a more esthetically pleasing tie-shoe made of brushed leather. These looked like black velvet, and were marginally less embarrassing.
Mental health and discomfort was clearly not high on my parents’ list of child-rearing priorities, as foreshadowed by these strict shoe rules, and other decisions they made.
When I was advised at the end of fifth grade that my public school days had come to an end, no attention was paid to my protestations, nor were explanations offered.
What I did get was a list of uniform items, which included sturdy tie shoes.
In this, at least, I was destined to be one of the crowd. ©
