Inexplicably, they seem fitting. Now, I’m not sure how delivering coverage on Miuccia Prada’s endeavors flew over my head this season but there is a very important question to be asked in conjunction with the footwear (I figure if the Furkenstocks of Celine are dubiously dubbed footwear, so too can aquatic sock/shoe hybrids.)
The question being, what the fuck?
Yesterday, I tweeted that socks are only chic when worn ironically. What I meant to say was that they suck with sneakers–for a handful of reasons but primarily because stinky feet are charming. Why rid yourself the seamless capability of procuring charm? On the other hand though, they’re (socks) great with sandals, toe caps, on knees and at last, as shoes with thong straps alienating your big toe and allowing all the littler ones to gang up against it, as Prada would suggest.
I can’t tell if they’re satin or leather but ultimately, it doesn’t matter. I am far too busy coming to terms with the internal quarrel staring me in the space between my toes. My eyes tell me not to like them but my heart, oh reckless, nonsensical heart, just can’t help it.
And here I thought my relationship with aquatic socks ended on a trip to Cozumel, Mexico when I was 12 (15) and still enthusiastic about snorkeling (in three foot water.) Once I saw a swordfish which was actually just a gold fish and that was the end of sea-career, but I digress.
Is the affection because Prada shows us what we don’t know we want, effectively begs us to want it and then slaps a price tag on it that leaves us mourning the circumstances of our existing wardrobes–which, by the way, were perfectly fine before what we didn’t think we want had even been a twinkle in the designers eye? Remember the melting rubber Mary-Janes from last season? I just don’t know.
My loins, they quiver. Save me.