Shoes — they separate us from the barefoot. Since the inception of the shoe, there has been one celebrated event by women.

Shoe sales.

The very phrase “shoe sale” invokes a feeling of thrill among all women. It ranks right up there with “fat free cheesecake” and “Stay tuned for an all new ‘Desperate Housewives!'”

To understand the phenomenon of shoe sales doesn’t take much. All a man needs to do is suck in his pride, turn to his significant other and mutter, “Baby, let’s go to the mall.”

And the fun begins.

Before I continue, I must explain to my women readers (Mom) that men are shoe illiterate. We stick with a pair of shoes as long as CBS sticks with a daytime game show host — until five years after his estimated death. The soles may be worn, discolored or completely separate from the rest of the shoe, but it doesn’t faze men because the shoe still fits, and there’s nothing duct tape can’t repair.

Before entering the mall, the man takes one final look at the outside world. It may be the last time he sees the sun. When he resurfaces, odds are the skies will be tarnished by nuclear winter. But the end of the world won’t end the sale of shoes.

Once inside, the man trails close behind his female counterpart. He is now a leashed puppy, for he fears wandering away and getting lost in a sea of Gymborees and jewelry kiosks.

Suddenly, the female sees the sign: “SHOE SALE.” Her jaw drops. She can’t believe her eyes, despite the other 17 shoe stores in the mall also have shoe sales.

And the fun begins. Finally.

The girl thumbs through the shoeboxes, looking for that perfect pair of footwear. With male three steps behind, the girl becomes frustrated and unable to find the shoes she wants.

“They don’t have my size!”

“It’s the wrong color!”

“This shoe’s full of gravy!”

Although she already owns 317 pairs of shoes, she feels dejected and unsuccessful. The woman exits the store, although the male is quite proud of his “gravy in the shoe” gag.

Shoe shopping is halted in lieu of browsing in clothing stores. The woman scouts out all the dresses — evening gowns, prom dresses, astronaut suits — while the guy (still trailing three paces) is afraid to even touch the clothing racks, as if the hangers were used tampons.

As the girl visualizes herself in each dress, a peculiar event happens. The man turns around and sees one of his own — another guy trailing a shopping girl. The men lock eyes for a moment, but nothing is said. As if by telepathy, the profound yet brief message is relayed through testosterone: “I feel ya, bro.”

Meanwhile, the girl doesn’t buy a dress because every time she pictured wearing it in public, she had 10 extra pounds and everyone noticed. Fortunately, she smells something in the air, like a trained bloodhound. No, it’s not the weird guy at the mall who speaks to God through his wristwatch and never showers. It’s another shoe sale.

And the fun begins. Part deux.

The pandemonium is comparable to the scene from “Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory” where Veruca Salt (the bratty girl) demanded her father make all his workers unwrap chocolate bars looking for the golden ticket. The difference is, however, at least someone found the golden ticket. None of the women find the shoes they imagine in their mind.

This is because the “perfect shoe” doesn’t exist. Shoe corporations purposely make every shoe just a skosh off the mark. Every loafer, sneaker, pump, flip-flop and bunny slipper are “just OK.” According to womankind, “if only this one [insert shoe flaw] were just [insert improvement to said flaw], then I’d be [insert feeling women get when they wash their hair like in those shampoo commercials].”

To be fair, men feel the same angst when rummaging through a used video game store. Dreams of striking gold on a cheap, used copy of “Madden 2005” turn to ashes when all they have are one- and two-year old versions. They’re the same basic games, but, according to guys, “They’re one- or two-years old. Du-uh!”

As the couple leaves the mall, both the man and woman feel a sense of emptiness. The woman bought nothing — and the man used up all his gravy.

Matt wants a gift certificate to Gymboree. Send him one at [email protected].