I was born with eleven toes, and a Russian ballet teacher put me on point at five. I have feet that hurt me and alarm strangers. I do not wear thong sandals out of compassion for others … Click here to read more about Joan Juliet Buck’s relationship with her feet.

The trouble is I’m happiest wearing my fleece-lined Merrell clogs. This drives my poor husband to distraction as they are hardly a city-compatible shoe and look vaguely orthopedic as lithe women go tripping lightly past in five-inch strappy stilettos. But I can’t do it. I wear pretty beaded flat or low-heeled mules. That’s as far as I go. And my feet have grown two full sizes. That can’t be normal. I never knew Joan had 11 toes. That is … well, just surprising. And weird. Joan — can’t you send us a photo of your feet? I would give a lot for that.

Yes, if I change into tennis shoes and play tennis everything changes. I feel totally different from my daily, work-scheduled self. Playing a good game makes me high all day.

No. And no one thinks there’s truth in it; it’s just a playful saying. But I once got good advice on shoes from Ronald Reagan, and I’ll share it. His father was a shoe salesman, and he told his son that when a day is going to go long, into the night, he should try to bring along an extra pair of shoes so he could change into them and give his feet a new shape to fit into. Sort of leaves your dogs, as they used to say, feeling refreshed. This actually works and is true.

Pretty shoes are mean critters. They try to trip you up whenever they can. Ugly shoes are comfortable but you can’t take them dancing. Unless you dance alone. Once I tried to go out big in these beautiful pretty platform shoes. So then I fell clumsily and broke my metatarsal bone in front of important people who pitied me. I have the x-rays if you don’t believe me. Now my foot bone hurts when it rains. Pretty shoes are nasty and spiteful — they’re happiest when they cripple you, at least where I come from.

As I get older, I like to look at my feet in pretty shoes. The shoes I buy make my feet look smart and carefree. There are no wrinkles, no redness, no lines, no droops; my feet could be teen-aged. So I buy a lot of shoes and feel I should wear them or I will think I am crazy. I rarely throw out shoes and I tell people that shoe styles always come back into style. But the truth is that I have memories of times with each pair of shoes and feel a certain loyalty. If this question was designed to prove how crazy I am, it is a really good question.

For heaven’s sake! Idiotic question. I have to change my shoes all the time anyway because I have a neuropathy (dying of nerves) in my feet and change is good. Change is good anyway.

Shoes don’t change my life — they change with my life. I have my clunky running shoes for my jogs in the morning. My trusty old Keds for dashing around the city, my gorgeous Manolos for feeling glamorous at night. But as a California girl, I’d prefer to be barefoot.

Shoes may not change your life but they can definitely change your mood. I have an entire wall of closets in my dressing room devoted to my ever-burgeoning collection of Manolo Blahniks to prove it. I was in love with a man once who watched me get dressed for a big-deal party. At the end, after the makeup, the hair, the expensive underwear, the YSL "smoking," and the five-inch black satin Manolos had all gone on, he described the effect as "the full Jesse," as in Jesse James. As in, you are now so suited up, so confident, that you could rob a bank. I just loved that. And I could have — robbed a bank, a man, whatever I felt like. But if I’d had on some perfectly acceptable mid-heel Stuart Weitzmans say, or worse, low-heeled pumps with no toe cleavage, it wouldn’t have worked. The full Jesse would have fallen apart. No one ever believes it, but I am essentially shy. Great shoes enable me to walk through any room in the world. I remember going to a big Christmas party in London years ago in a black Bill Blass suit and some black satin t-strap Manolos that I still have (the secret is maintenance — and the secret to that is a place in Manhattan called "Shoe Service" on 55th between 5th and 6th). Anyway, the eyes of almost every man in the room fell on my feet. I was gliding, it was great, and those shoes — most great shoes — were worth every cent. Who needs a gun in her pocket while Manolo Blahnik is still on the planet?