I have dinosaur feet. The same bony muscularity that gives me (in my humble opinion) very nice hands makes my feet look like something out of a nature studies text. So maybe that’s why I don’t get the shoe thing. I mean, I find the don’t-get-broken-glass-in-your-foot, God-it’s-snowy-outside, oops! dog-poop, no-shoes-no-service reasons, quite reasonable. And I like nice shoes. I don’t like shopping for shoes because I’m hard to fit, and I’m a bear about comfort for the same reasons.
On the other hand, I have friends who love shoe shopping. I get emails with links to Cool Shoe Sites. Some of the cool shoes are Vintage cool (the same site also advertises a “Vegan shoe option!). Some of them partake of a different shoe-wearing sensibility. Some are just, um, unbearably arty.
I particularly love the copywriting on that last site. “The applications on the inside and the outside remind of the wings of a jet aircraft and thereby visualise the theme of velocity.” That’s a lot of meaning for footwear to have to carry. And, alas for my fashion-forward ambitions, those shoes would make me look like I was holding up a bridge (curiously, that’s not one of my ambitions in life).
If I’m going out on an orgy of shopping, I’d just as soon it were an orgy of book buying and music purchasing and movie-going. So, in addition to not being Caroline (or Morgan or Steve or Rory or Brad or Maureen) it appears that I am not Imelda Marcos. Which, given that things haven’t turned out so well for her, is okay by me.