An Open Letter To Shoes

Dear Shoes,

I hate you.

I thought about ending the letter there, but I’ve got a lot of hostility built up right now. I’ve just ordered two pairs of shoes because I have–LITERALLY– one pair of shoes appropriate for my life in Autumn and Winter. I’m about to make some career gal on a budget extremely happy when I dump all the pumps and grown up shoes from my Former Life off at Goodwill.

I will admit most of the problem is mine. I have kite-shaped feet. Diamond shaped, when I’m feeling fancy. I don’t feel fancy right now. What I feel is dismayed at this, this, thing called a “shootie” that is the unholy spawn of an open-toed FMP and an ankle boot. The FMP ship sailed for me years ago. YEARS ago. Like during the Clinton administration. Why does this shootie need to exist? WHY? Oh, wait. I know. It’s for when I’m bloated, right? The open toe says, “Hay sailor, take you to heaven for a dollar,” but the boot says, “as soon as I finish watching Terms of Endearment and this bag of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup Miniatures. And that can of Pringles. And are you gonna finish that burger? Do I look gross? DO I?!”

Shoes, I know women who would give up sex to go shopping for you. Women who call you their best friends. I don’t actually like any of those women, I’m just saying they exist. There are women who swoon at the mere mention of Manolo. Me? Well, let’s just say there’s this set of copper cookware I’ve been eyeing that I’d let get to second base.

I’m not saying I want to look like that librarian who scared the crap out of you in third grade. I want to look like a girl from the ankle down, sure. But, shoes, you know I’m flat-footed and therefore have no balance. Most of what’s out there sends me careening into doorways, making my ankles do a decent Linda Blair impression, and causing most people to believe I go through life drunk when that’s only true like 30% of the time.

I just ordered two pairs of you. They arrived today. They were not transformative shoes. These shoes are like the Temple of shoes. The Yale of shoes didn’t work out. I wanted Payton Manning. I got Kerry Collins.  I want to send them back, but…

I hate you. And while I’m on the subject, why has the circumference of boots decreased like a million inches in the past five years? I don’t, strangely enough, have huge calves, but your Barbie-sized boots give me YET ANOTHER body part to obsess over. THANKS, BITCHES.

Look, I’m probably going to keep these shoes because I don’t think I can do any better. But I want you to know this: I will pummel you. I will crush you. I will throw you in the back of the closet. I will run in you.





Just spit it out, already!

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