I’ll try them on, sure. But I’ll be immediately visited with a sensation I wouldn’t wish on another human being (unless they killed my dog or something and even then I might feel bad for a few seconds.) It’s just that, when I step in, I can’t shake the impending, doom-like feeling that I’m about to become inescapably, mind numbingly bored.
Like algebra bored. Like dinner party with my parents bored. In fact I’m pretty sure every pair of girly drenched foot pumps comes with a copy of War and Peace: The Totally Self Serving and Completely Unnecessary Director’s Cut, but I’m not the kind of masochist that would voluntarily investigate. I don’t like pain, I like my Chucks.
Where did I ever get such a crazy idea, you ask? Maybe because chicks I know who wear them are kind of boring. The only outfit they seem capable of putting together is whatever Miss Glamour Face America Magazine told them was a “must wear” this spring. What they lack in imagination they make up for an ever growing collection of lady shoes. Maybe because those same girls feel the need taunt me for choosing Chucks. And I can’t help but associate their footwear with the blather spilling out of their mouths.
Maybe. But part of me thinks I’ve sat out the stiletto parade, because they’re nothing more than a fancy uniform. Think about it. You wear heels to “dress up” for something. The prom, some parental conceived event, to “look pretty” – the occasion always dictates the dress. You wear them because you’re “supposed to.” (Well that, or you posses some masochistic affection for bunions). Even if your only reason is to “look cute,” you’ve still put on what fashion and its followers determine to be cute. And the second you put on a costume is the second you stop thinking for yourself. Boring. I’m falling asleep just thinking about it.
You could argue, “Kat, aren’t Chucks just another uniform? You know, what you wear to look different?” You’re right up to a point. But what divides the hypocrites from the authentic is what happens after you tie your shoes. Dressing to “look” rebellious is just as empty as standing around to look pretty. Not to mention, pretty freaking dull. I’m not wearing them to look different. Just like a dancer needs slippers and a soccer player needs cleats, I need reliable shoes to go out and “do” different. For every moment to be awesome. And awesome moments don’t happen when your feet hurt.
Take just last week for example. My high school has always been a bit of a fashion show. Sure enough, cute little Kristen is showing off some strappy black contraptions before first period (that probably cost her about three times what I paid for my Chucks). And her little follower friends are just gawking. All I can think is how unbelievably boring their lives must be if this is the highlight of their morning. Just as this thought crosses my brain, she looks over at my fading high tops, whispers something to her disciples and they all start laughing. Now I’ll be honest. Their snickers did cause me to feel sort of self conscious. I mean, I am human. But before regret had a chance to sink in, the warning bell rang – the one that announces we have sixty seconds to make it to class before the final bell finds us in our seats. If not detention’s the word for the afternoon.
Naturally, everyone took off running. I absolutely could not miss my afternoon drum lesson because of some stupid bell. Kristen and Co. started running too, but Kristen’s stride was broken by her scream. With enough time to turn around, I saw she’d fallen face first into the floor. The culprit? A broken left heel. Long story short, I scooted into my seat with six seconds to spare, and ended up killing it at my drum teacher’s house that afternoon. She missed the bell and consequently got stuck after school. Plus the broken heel left her to hobble around for the rest of the day like Igor the Peg Legged Creeper. You don’t have to subscribe to Miss Glamour Face to know that’s not quite the look they had in mind.
There’s two ways to look at this situation. A surface analysis: “My Chucks won this round because, as sneakers, they’re better suited for the ‘beat the bell’ dash.” But, I believe it goes a little deeper than that. Like I said earlier, I wear Chucks because I like them, not because some magazine designed my uniform. But, Kristen only loves her (broken – ha!) shoes this season. There’s not a loyal bone in her skinny frame. She’ll use them until there’s a new pair in town. But not me, nope. Even with a fairly good sized hole on the right side and my ex-boyfriend’s name crossed out from the sole, I’m keeping them. I bought them for me, and my likes don’t fade every time the season changes. Maybe I’m completely insane for thinking this (given the whole inanimate nature of shoes and all). But maybe, just maybe by being loyal to my Chucks, they return the favor by keeping me on my feet.
Look. I’ve got nothing against heels, stilettos, pumps, whatever you want to call them. But I’ve got drums to practice. Shows to see. Stuff to do. Because being bored sucks. Plus, I’ve never really been too big on bunions.
