This week in a new installment called Shoesday: green cap toe, navy body, subtle glitter, dark wood. While working on my Russell co-Branded bookie wookie, I got to thinking about the relationship we have with our feet and the shit that goes on them. Maybe you remember the corresponding tweet attached to this sentiment. I have a few theories and speculations about why we’re willing to drop such large loads–brands will only make their footwear as expensive as the consumer can handle and loads of these guys run up some $3,000 price tags–on the little leather, often uncomfortable critters ultimately meant for no use more imperative than to drag across floors. Across floors.
Many a time, they’re even in fact overlooked in the grand scheme of presence. But my theories are just, you know, theories and they include the usual roundabout confidence, suspension of disbelief, strive to role play as a means of escapism, you know how it goes. Sex and The City penetrated the notion of a woman’s relationship with shoes quite heavily during the course of its six season run. In one episode, Carrie Bradshaw went so far as to fake nuptials with herself so as to regain a pair of lost silver Manolo Blahniks. In another, she had a pair stolen off her feet, literally. I’ll argue she deserved that one for not knowing where Houston Street was but that’s another beast to tackle at a later time. More recently, an entire movie–God Save My Shoes–debuted during fashion week to outline the female attraction to expensive footwear. I saw it, I liked it–quite a lot–but somehow, I still find the question unresolved: what is it with us women and our shoes?
Would love to hear what you think.