I’m starting to come to the conclusion that life revolves around shoes. Everywhere I go I see perfect examples in glorious symmetry; a perfect pair of jaw dropping stilettos with a neon trim or a cute couple of flip flops covered in sparkles. The outcome is always the same, they always ruin my feet.
But without shoes, Cinderella would never had met Prince Charming, Carrie Bradshaw would have had half the fun whizzing around Manhattan if it wasn’t for her Manolos and I would have trodden on a whole heap more glass in dodgy establishments up and down the country. But my poor little feet, responsible for carrying the weight of my world (as well as food shopping, the girlies when fast asleep to the car and heavy boxes when moving) are often unloved and sore. And it’s all to do with shoes.
I long to be the kind of girl who can walk for miles in skyscraper heels and not bat an eyelid, rather than the kind of girl who always packs a pair of flip flops on a night out due to ALWAYS having sore feet and regularly getting told to hush when whinging about them when moving from bar to bar. I would love to be the girl who can wear wedges to the office without one flipping off at the back, or stacking it down the stairs into the path of a delivery man, because I can assure you ladies, I’m not falling at the feet of the man of my dreams, but more falling into the lap of a smelly man with a moustache like Super Mario and a lack of knowledge about the vast range of deodorants on the market.
It doesn’t help that I am surrounded by a whole host of shoe appreciators. My female friends have extensive ranges of beautiful shoes and often email me montages of screen grabs from expensive shoe websites that I cannot afford, titled “Fantastic Shoe Sale!” or “Which Should I Choose?” while male friends avoid nights out to stay at home and buff their trainers. I know one guy who owns 132 pairs of trainers, and that’s trainers alone. I’m from the school of thought that if they are going to make my feet hurt anyway, I may as well buy a cheap pair and look at them in my cupboard, rather than buying an expensive pair, doing the above, but not being able to fill the cupboards with food that week either. It’s a double whammy, like life saying to me “Sucks to be you! You cant walk in these shoes! And you’ll also be hungry when looking at them!” might as well be able to buy a consolation packed of Jaffa Cakes and destroy them, right?
So my aim is to learn to walk in shoes. Like the legs of a baby giraffe, ill start wobbly but as I work on my poor, poor feet they will strengthen until I can sail down the stairs while maintaining an air of poise and grace.
The swap is that I might have calloused feet like a grannie, but it’s a price I may or may not be I am willing to pay. It’s a work in progress.