I toyed with titling this post the Agony of De Feet. I have big feet. Ten to ten and a half, double E. I know that we’re supposed to embrace our physical selves, love our bodies, etc. As far as I’ve come with my level of self-acceptance, I cannot bring myself to love my feet. I’m happy that I can bend over and touch them, but that’s about it.
You know that whole passionate love affair women are supposed to have with shoes? How some women will fill their closets with pair after pair? Not me. I honestly would rather walk barefoot whenever possible than put on a pair of shoes. I’d rather wear sandals than something with closed toes. Ice pick heels and FMPs? Not for me. I never liked them even when I wasn’t obese. I can’t remember a time when I’ve ever really owned a truly cute pair of shoes. Oh wait. Back in 1980 I had a single pair of Candies. They were kind of cute.
Honestly, cute shoes in 10 1/2 EE are rare as 20 karat, VSI diamonds. Twenty-five, Thirty-five years ago, they were rarer than hen’s teeth.
People keep telling me that I’m going to lose weight in my feet too. God, I hope so. I don’t expect a miracle, but if I could even become a single E, that would be the coolest thing ever.
You might wonder why this is coming up today. It could have appeared as a topic a month or so ago when I was desperately searching for the right sneakers to wear to do Zumba. I usually buy men’s sneakers because they run wide. I could have purchased Zumba brand shoes, but the only ones they make for men are black with eye-stabbing fluorescent yellow-green accents. Hey, Zumba company, yes, I’m talking to you. Would it kill you to offer black with that pretty purple pink?
Living here in the Florida Keys, I wear Crocs sandals almost every day. I have six pairs of Crocs flip flops in a lovely variety of colors. These are perfect for daily wear, on the boat, on the beach, to work — perfect, I tell you!
They are not, however, perfect for formal or semi-formal occasions. This, my friends, is the source of my trauma. I have not one but two events coming up in two and a half weeks that require me to dress up. Normally, I would be stressing out over the outfits, but I think I have those covered. A friend lent me a black sheath dress with a dressy, sheer jacket. I just ordered a lace and satin top that should go great over a pair of black evening pants, providing I can find a seamstress to take in the pants. The woman who altered clothes for me a few months ago left town. If I can’t find a seamstress, I’ll invoke Plan B. This will require me to devise a Plan B, but I’m on it.
I went to my fall back store – Zappos dot com – to search for evening shoes. I found some there a few years ago that were at least borderline pretty, plus they were comfortable. Most important quality of all? They didn’t look like they should only be worn by 90 year olds with support hose and bunions. Tonight, out of the megathousands of pairs of shoes, how many possible candidates do you think I found? 20? 10? 1! As in, 1 is the loneliest number. Yes, I ordered them. Now I simply have to hope that when they arrive and I try them on, they’ll fit so that I can go off to the
ball events and not feel like a total loser in the shoe category.
If they don’t fit, I don’t really have a Plan B, unless I find a pair of shiny black leather flip flops and glue some blingy charm to them or something.
Let’s pray it doesn’t come to that.