I have had it up to here (you can’t see me, technically, but I am pointing my left hand at the tippy top of my head to signify the high level of frustration with which I have been plagued) with long lists of perfect summer shoes.
Don’t get me wrong, I like a list just as much as any other self-respecting woman who has read Joan Didion’s Packing List from within Slouching Toward Bethlehem does, but when I say I want the perfect summer shoes, I mean just one pair. I’m not trying to buy or even see the best 265 best as intoned by [insert women's publication here]. I just want one.
That said, I’ve had the same shoe problem for the last three years and I think I’ve finally figured out how to fix it.
Firstly, it’s important to note that when I get dressed, I really try to look like I let two people dress me. One from the waist up and another from the neck down. Sometimes I isolate body parts (like my feet, face, etc) and have those dressed by third parties, but never do I ever allow myself to look like one, definitive thing.
During the winter, I err on the side of masculine which lead way to my wearing feminine shoes. Think ballet mid-heels and pumps and dainty boots if there is such a thing. In the summer, however, all I want to do is throw a white poplin mini dress on every single day, or some version of that white linen/lace that Isabel Marant is always rolling out and call it a look.
And that doesn’t work with flimsy feminine shoes, now does it? So what do I do? In the past, I’ve relied on sneakers. As recently as Sunday, I relied on brogues. But you know what I think this all boils down to? A dynamic pair of gladiator sandals that don’t know they’re gladiators. Sure, Stuart Weitzman’s offerings are near impeccable, but there’s something about impeccability that doesn’t quite sit right with me. And those gladiators know they could take on Russell Crowe, know what I’m saying?
This summer, I think I’m going to rely on this pair, by Ancient Greek Sandals (in collaboration with Carven). They’re not too high on the leg, nor are they too low (though if you prefer little guys, they come as a foot sandal too). They allow for a prosaic white dress to look cooler but whisper in their tonal nude as opposed to yell the way some of their relatives do.
And where denim cut-offs are concerned, that’s what last decade’s ballet flats are for. Duh, duh, duh and duh. Sold. To the lady in face paint.