In my twenties I lived in New York, where I spent the better part of my days shunning the extremely sensible advice to walk to work in your sneakers and change into fashionable footwear at the office. (Please note I worked at FASHION MAGAZINES the entire time I lived in the big apple, where FASHIONABLE FOOTWEAR practically grew on trees.)
But I was young. And vain.
And so, so stupid.
Sometimes I took the bus (a quarter mile walk to the stop), sometimes I took the subway (a half mile to the nearest station), and many, countless times I walked the entire way to work –close to two miles each way–in skinny stilettos or towering platform boots or delicate kitten-heel mules or some other equally ridiculous Carrie Bradshaw shoe. Because when you’re young and dumb and haven’t developed full-blown bunions yet, you can afford to refuse to be one of those sneakers-and-stockings commuter girls.
This was not going to be me.
Thanks to this youthful ignorance, I am now the proud owner of every fucking foot malady you can possibly think of. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if someday, podiatric patients whose extremities are beyond all help are given the devastating diagnosis of Jennafoot.
Anyhow, a few years ago I was going to New York and I knew that I needed a pair of comfy kick-around shoes. I still had it in my head that these had to be sneakers, so because I was wise and mature I ordered six pairs from Zappos, even though I routinely dislike sneakers in general. I sent five pairs back and kept these because even though they weren’t overwhelmingly comfy, they weren’t awful, and of the lot I thought they were the cutest.
It turns out, brown sneakers aren’t cute with much of anything. If wearing them felt like I was walking on a bed of massaging cloud-pillows, I promise you I’ve grown enough as a person that I would wear them. But they don’t. The good news is, I found these, which do:
They have memory foam inserts and they’re my favorite shade of my favorite color and they’re CUTE even with my cuffed-up jeans EVEN THOUGH I HAVE A NO-SNEAKERS-WITH-JEANS-RULE and they make me happier than I ever thought a sneaker could.
I think the lesson here is if you have horrible feet, never
stop buying shoes give up hope.
PS Yes, I’m from the East Coast, where “sneakers” are a thing. Now I live in Cally, where you’re supposed to call them tennis shoes EVEN IF YOU’RE NOT PLAYING TENNIS IN THEM which I refuse to do because literal police.