You know what they say about big feet...

At approximately eleven o'clock this morning, I, J.Fro of Berkeley, entered a war zone.

I'm not talking war zone like, say, the one I'm going to be living in starting July 2. And I don't mean war zone like Afghanistan or Iraq or even a diva-licious Hollywood movie set.

I entered what can only be described as the Valley of Forgotten Shoes. Or perhaps I shall call it by its appropriate title: The Nordstrom Half-Yearly Sale Shoe Racks for Well-Endowed Women.

For those of you who've known me awhile, you've probably been acquainted with my large (and dare I say well-groomed) feet. I passed size 10 toward the end of elementary school, and around seventh or eighth grade I established myself as a solid 12. Sometimes, very rarely, I can push my feet into size-11 strappy sandals. But this is a rare, and often celebrated, occasion.

As Nordstrom is one of the few stores that actually carries my size (less and less frequently as the years have progressed) I feel I owe it to myself to brave the first day of each sale, if I can. As brutal and as chaotic as the environment may be, it's worth it to hold those precious pieces of gold in your hands. The possibility of walking home with new footwear is a splendid high.

There's also a great comfort in talking to fellow big-footed women in your designated section. Those of us who leave a larger footprint commiserate with each other; we ruminate on how "nobody understands how we suffer" and "Our moms are so petite! How did this happen to me?" and my favorite, "If I ever have kids, I swear to G-d, I'm binding my feet."

We're like war buddies, us big-footed women. We know how it is. We've been dismissed from mainstream shoe stores, ignored by salesmen and women, shoved our feet into size 10s only to damage our pedicures; we've poured over Zappos and Piperlime and Nine West online, only to discover that the shoes we've paid an extra sum for in shipping don't fit at all.

We've walked past the "regular size" shoe sale racks time and time again, heads down in agonizing shame. We've been harassed, made fun of, joked about, laughed at, and yet we've still kept our heads high, all the while knowing that our feet give us a more solid foundation to stand upon than any size-6 pixie-footed shrimp.

But we're also a tad competitive; we're pushy and overbearing and want to make sure we get our hands on the Stuart Weitzmans and Sam Edelmans first. We're polite and kind, but deep down each of us has one goal: walking away with as many pairs as possible. We commiserate and we suffer, but we do it together. We go to battle with one another, and with our own two feet.

So I am pleased to report that I did find two pairs of shoes perfect for my Jerusalem adventure. I survived the war zone with my sanity intact.

Perhaps the so-intense-it-prepares-you-for-Israel factor was what made it so fulfilling, or perhaps it was just the fact that I had fun at the mall, but today was a good day.

I'm excited.