I have inherited, from my Myanmar-born grandmother, tiny hands and feet. And while my hands have brought me glory, favorably commented upon by the world at large, my feet have only brought me despair as I am rarely able to find shoes that fit me perfectly. While I have done some hand modeling for a couple of articles during a stint with a fashion magazine a few years ago, my feet have been stared at by people who doubtless thought that they belong to elfin creatures from fairy tales.
Summer is a season that I spend gazing enviously at other girls’ shoes. Beautiful bellies, graceful ballets, seductive platforms and wedges tantalize me with unfulfilled desires. The ladies in my office move around me, shod in beautiful designs. I stare at shoes and weave dreams around them. The bane of being stuck with small feet of non-standard size seems unbearable in summers. It is difficult for me to find footwear that fits me perfectly. And it is all the more cruel during summers, when footwear fashion is at its peak.
Thus, to me, shoes have similar artistic value as Renaissance paintings. I admire with longing their designs and styles, and pore for endless hours over fashion magazines staring at exquisite Choos and Loubotins and Ferragamos. Just as the singer Sting dreams of gardens in the desert sand, I fantasize about being able to coordinate my shiny mulberry and green handbags with matching shoes.