This is my foot:
Nothing too exciting. Wears between a size 7.5 and 8, depending on the brand. Often found clad in wool socks.
I enjoy sticking shoes on that not-so-exciting foot. I mean really enjoy sticking shoes on it. As cliche as it is, as much as it seems like "this is my brain on Sex and the City", I really, really like shoes. Sometimes I have to strategically plan my trips to Target to avoid passing the shoe aisles to guarantee I won't walk out of the store with a $20.00 pair of questionable quality shoes under my arm. You know, like this:
Practicality is not to be reckoned with when it comes to the shoe fetish. It is a sick, sick love affair. On more than one occasion, I've been caught wearing shoes which I know hurt me. Hello knee pain:
In my office working days, I consistently crammed my feet into shoes which are just a teensy, weensy bit too small.
I put up with an awful for the sake of footwear, that is, until it comes to actual down-to-earth, "you need this so your feet don't freeze and fall off" footwear. Anyone who's read this blog for a while knows that I have yet to come to terms with the less than cute reality of good outdoors apparel. Give me $100 to spend on shoes and I'll come back with some sort of configuration of heels, flats, and sandals.
Which explains why I've been tromping around for the last seven or eight winters in these:
These boots are the result of a rather flabbergasting shoe trip. They are fine boots, but they are two sizes too big. Still, I couldn't be persuaded to replace them. Who wants to spend a $100 on shoes and just come back with some clunky ol' winter boots?!
Knowing this, Andy decided to take matters into his own hands. On Saturday, he brought home these:
They're the right size for my foot, much warmer than my old boots, yet, I hemmed and hawed over the new boots. I wondered if they might just be a little too snug. (Keep in mind that I have often worn shoes that make my feet bleed during the "break-in" process with little to no complaining.) Were they a little too clunky? Did I care for the way they looked? Did they make me walk funny? Gosh, I just didn't know if they would work. Maybe they would . . .
It struck me that if I love frivolous shoes in a head over heels, love at first sort of way, my feelings towards practical footwear are more akin to a "mail-order bride" kind of affection:
You think you can just stick it out the way it is. It's really not that bad, after all. No matter how frequently you tell yourself and others that "you're fine," there's always that niggling knowledge in the back of your mind that things could be better. When you finally muster up the near to make a change, there's apprehension and some angst. And you're not so sure about things when the new person (boots) show up on scene, Yet, slowly you warm to each other and over time you form a partnership where you wonder what you ever did without the other.
Sometimes you need things thrust upon you to really get what you need.
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Nothing too exciting. Wears between a size 7.5 and 8, depending on the brand. Often found clad in wool socks.
I enjoy sticking shoes on that not-so-exciting foot. I mean really enjoy sticking shoes on it. As cliche as it is, as much as it seems like "this is my brain on Sex and the City", I really, really like shoes. Sometimes I have to strategically plan my trips to Target to avoid passing the shoe aisles to guarantee I won't walk out of the store with a $20.00 pair of questionable quality shoes under my arm. You know, like this:
Practicality is not to be reckoned with when it comes to the shoe fetish. It is a sick, sick love affair. On more than one occasion, I've been caught wearing shoes which I know hurt me. Hello knee pain:
In my office working days, I consistently crammed my feet into shoes which are just a teensy, weensy bit too small.
I put up with an awful for the sake of footwear, that is, until it comes to actual down-to-earth, "you need this so your feet don't freeze and fall off" footwear. Anyone who's read this blog for a while knows that I have yet to come to terms with the less than cute reality of good outdoors apparel. Give me $100 to spend on shoes and I'll come back with some sort of configuration of heels, flats, and sandals.
Which explains why I've been tromping around for the last seven or eight winters in these:
These boots are the result of a rather flabbergasting shoe trip. They are fine boots, but they are two sizes too big. Still, I couldn't be persuaded to replace them. Who wants to spend a $100 on shoes and just come back with some clunky ol' winter boots?!
Knowing this, Andy decided to take matters into his own hands. On Saturday, he brought home these:
They're the right size for my foot, much warmer than my old boots, yet, I hemmed and hawed over the new boots. I wondered if they might just be a little too snug. (Keep in mind that I have often worn shoes that make my feet bleed during the "break-in" process with little to no complaining.) Were they a little too clunky? Did I care for the way they looked? Did they make me walk funny? Gosh, I just didn't know if they would work. Maybe they would . . .
It struck me that if I love frivolous shoes in a head over heels, love at first sort of way, my feelings towards practical footwear are more akin to a "mail-order bride" kind of affection:
You think you can just stick it out the way it is. It's really not that bad, after all. No matter how frequently you tell yourself and others that "you're fine," there's always that niggling knowledge in the back of your mind that things could be better. When you finally muster up the near to make a change, there's apprehension and some angst. And you're not so sure about things when the new person (boots) show up on scene, Yet, slowly you warm to each other and over time you form a partnership where you wonder what you ever did without the other.
Sometimes you need things thrust upon you to really get what you need.
