Shoes Make the Outfit

My closet bears a strange resemblance to a color chart at the local paint store. My hanging clothes are arranged by color, not item. White, black, blue, red, orange, yellow, brown. The spectrum is quite small when compared with the chart at Sherwin-Williams, and when any one of my numerous friends stops by to borrow an outfit, the simple nature (they call it "boring") of my organization method surprises them without fail. The shock, however, comes not from the display of my genius shining through graceful simplicity, but the vague recollection that I'm considered the uber-fashionista among all my friends.

I can see the confusion in their minds as they try to reconcile why their impression of me as a diva doesn't match this bland assemblage that I call a "wardrobe". At the moment they begin to look for the hidden stash of clothing I must have in a secret vault, I ease their needless fretting by pointing to the trophy case, otherwise known as "the shelves where I keep my shoes."

Shoes are my secret potion, the je ne sais quoi of my style, the X factor, my mojo, and my raison d'etre (proof that I took French in high school). I once heard Kelly Ripa say, "As long as you're wearing great shoes, you can show up in a burlap sack, and everyone will say, 'Hey, nice outfit!'" This theory holds true. Go to the mall sometime and people-watch. Shoes make the outfit.

As boring as my clothing choices may be, my shoes are on the opposite end of the spectrum. They scream things like, "Look at me! I'm a multi-colored, singing, dancing Christmas tree, and I cost $350! And yes, I am Kate Spade." Never before have so many strangers said, "Great shoes!" since I subscribed to the Ripa Theory. So, I'll keep wearing my Kate Spades, my Pradas, my Blahniks, and my other-names-I-can't-pronounce, and trust that my shoes will make my slightly ripped, solid blue shirt from Old Navy look like a designer piece that must have cost a fortune.