Silk and silken shoes, bridal shoes, wedding boots

A WRITER friend once spent half her Ontario Arts Council grant on a pair of $500 Peter Fox shoes. Her boyfriend, who was washing dishes for a living, said, "You're one of the people I theoretically hate," and then didn't speak to her for two days.

I say, come on over, girl, and let me try those shoes on! I fully understand that decision (although, where shoe purchasing is concerned, the calm implied by the word "decision" - which gives no suggestion of the corresponding emotional frenzy - is terribly misleading). What else could she have spent $500 on that would have had the same power to transform her life, calm her heart and provide the kind of meditative peace necessary for her to write? Would a few pounds of flank steak and a paid-off Visa bill have moved her to poetry? No, that power is held by shoes alone - although boots have been known to inspire fever dreams as well.

Shoes are singular in their power to transform, to give us a new identity every day. (Hats can play a similar role, but few of us are secure enough in our personal style, or the unflappability of our hair, to wear a hat at all times.) An ugly shoe makes for an ugly day, while anything with a stacked heel, a zipper, or a perfectly stitched sole imbues the wearer with such a sense of power and purpose that no one will dare criticize her executive decisions. I'm certain there's a medical study proving that the right shoe can ward off the flu.

Shoes, properly bought and employed, are both invitation and armour, the only part of our true costume we display all the time. The right pair of shoes hints at greater possibilities, hidden depths, kinkiness denied. The right pair of shoes says, "No, that's my table, over by the window, next to Mr. Black's," or "Pretty soon, these shoes are going to be resting on your desk, buddy."

Linda O'Keeffe is the author of the book Shoes, and therefore the woman with the greatest job on earth. She says that little girls are taught early about the mythical power of shoes through folk tales like Cinderella, and by peering into their mother's closets.

In the course of researching her book, O'Keeffe came across women who had remodelled their entire apartments to accommodate shoe collections, and others who kept towers of shoe boxes, each affixed with a Polaroid of the treasures within.

While I appreciate the energy and dedication involved, I still want to take those women aside and say, "That's a bit much, isn't it, dear?" Perhaps that's because my own shoes live in a ghetto at the bottom of a closet, with no regular ventilation or lighting service. Shoes should instill worship, not be objects of,worship themselves (except, of course, for that small segment of the population that has received training in licenced dungeons and knows how to do it properly).

We're fortunate to live in a time when there's very little political stigma attached to being a shoe-aholic. An excess devotion to clothing or crosmetics will raise eyebrows among your right-thinking friends, but even the most right-thinking of them won't likely sneer at the opportunity to visit a shoe store. Even if she is one of those friends - and we all have them - who divides the seasons between Birkenstocks and Doc Martens.

This theory, unfortunately, has not filtered into politics itself: There seem to be very few important political women who have the confidence to wear equally important shoes. I look to Sheila Copps to set cultural policy, but I wouldn't want to rely on her closet if I had a party to attend. And a nondescript pair of pumps is not going to cut it when a woman is called upon, a la Kruschev at the UN, to create an international incident using footwear.

Some of the most serious women I know spend inordinate amounts of time - often while travelling on business - shopping for shoes. I was once standing in a department store in Paris while a friend tried to decide between two pairs of Patrick Cox loafers. The navy satin was on her right foot; the brown satin with the rhinestone buckle on her left. (I encouraged her to get both, having just traded away my credit future for a perfect pair of Freelance boots.)

As we debated the relative merits of each, we heard a Gallic psst! psst! from the corner. There was a janitor, standing in a freight elevator, gesturing at my friend's right foot. This one? she asked him in French. Yes, he said, that one — it will go with more outfits. And, he added, it is important to get a man's opinion before buying shoes.

Given the fellow's interest in life's essentials and his obvious good taste, I was willing to overlook the inaccuracy of that statement. If we got a man's opinion before we bought our shoes, we would be shod like men: three pairs of shoes, all boring, all comfortable. Men don't care about shoes. Not enough, anyway.

If you try out a spectacular pair of shoes and show them to a man, you'll likely receive a heavy sigh that means "Now I have to find parking right in front," when what you really want to hear is, "My God, I will die of pride to be seen with you in those magnificent shoes." Try introducing the same pair of shoes to a female friend: She will spot them in a crowded convention centre, which she will fly across to clutch your arm and gasp, each word given its own full stop, "Look.at.those.SHOES!"

Of course, she may be tempted to run out and buy the same pair, initiating the kind of delicate negotiations that sometimes strain even the closest relationships: But I won't get the same colour. We don't have the same size. I promise I won't wear them at the same time as you. I'll even stop sleeping with your husband. To which, beaten down, you inevitably respond, "Oh, all right. But not the same colour."

A good pair of shoes is in many ways the equivalent of a good friend — you depend on them both for the soundness of their soles. My friend who blew half her grant on the Peter Fox shoes bought them without trying them on first, and wears them still.

Perhaps one day, if I'm very lucky, she'll let me try them on.