We’ve all got is-shoes

Too many shoes!

Shoes matter. And I’m not saying that just because I’m subscribing to that stereotype of modern femininity.

Naturally, I always knew this, but the real epiphany came last Thursday when, for some bizarre reason, I thought it would be a good idea to wear a pair of vintage boots with a fluffy lining (which were coincidentally a size too small for me, a fact that didn’t stop me buying them) on a field trip to Manchester. I was in so much pain by the time I got back to York that I had to buy a pair of cheapies just so that I could make it home.

Whilst its sort of true that, in theory, humans can survive on a maximum of about 7 pieces of essential clothing, with all others being something of a luxury, I refuse to believe that the same is true of shoes. Each life experience or activity requires specific sole protection/decoration. Ipso facto, one can never have too many pairs.

This is not a gender specific thing either. Deny it if you want to fellas, but I know how much your Vans/High-tops/Smart lace-ups matter to you. Us ladies certainly judge you by them. After all, you can tell everything you need to know about a man by checking out what he’s got on down there….

Of course, females (perhaps even more critically) size up what others of their kind put on over their pedicures - it's basic anthropology.

Accordingly, I usually choose to ignore the level of appropriateness of my footwear for whatever activity I may be about to undertake. After months of abuse at the hands (or should that be feet?) of my love for impractical footwear, this week I have been fighting against the impulse to cripple myself any further in the name of shoe-love.

Simple as this may seem, it isn’t.

I have an aversion to wearing anything that resembles a trainer, unless its one of those rare occasions in which I consciously engage in vigorous exercise. Despite owning two pairs of Converse (after much goading into buying them, I might add), they just sit looking sad and gathering dust at the back of my wardrobe.

Give me satin-thin pumps or sky-scraping boots any day.

Yet sometimes, no matter how visually orgasmic a shoe might be, its just not worth the blisters. Even then, the most unassuming pair can be vindictive little soles. As experience testifies, flat shoes can sometimes be far more injurious than platforms. You might not sprain your ankle in them, but backache from lack of support can be just as, if not more, harmful.

It’s a perilous world out there for the shoe-buyer. They are, perhaps, the most evil item on sale. Either they are so stiff they feel like sculpted metal, or they fall apart at the first sight of rain. Shops won’t take them back if you’ve worn them once down the road, and who wants well worn in but second-hand blood-soaked brogues? I have learnt from my misstep – never again will I purchase a dead person’s boots, no matter how retro.

Granted this week’s quit is rather petty, but its really more a chance for me to rant about something other than revision or dissertations or exam results, than a serious meditation on contemporary consumer culture. I don’t think I’m alone in my is-shoes though.

(I do apologize for the title this week, couldn’t for the life of me think of anything else so fitting. It’s cheesy but it does the job, just like an old pair of slightly smelly but beloved slippers.)

So, did I succeed? Well, seeing as my workload has prevented me from really leaving the house, hence nullifying my need for footwear other than aforementioned slippers, then yes, I suppose I did.

Feet successfully still intact, my brain being another matter, I hereby pledge never again to bind my feet like a concubine for the sake of sartorial seduction. Unless the shoes are made of solid gold, or come with a lifetime supply of more shoes - a person can never have enough, after all. Especially when they are running out of brain cells.

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