All illustrations by the author.

I love your shoes. Tell me about them! What’s the story? Where’d you get them; why’d you get them — I want all the details.

OK, OK, you’re right: I am not really looking at your shoes at this exact moment. But years ago, I read a magazine interview with a celebrity (I remember this being Melissa McCarthy, but a light Google search turns up nothing) who advised always complimenting another person’s shoes. The crux of the advice (since I can’t find it and therefore can’t quote it) was that people spend a lot of time choosing their shoes. Because you wear them a lot and they tend to be a financial investment, people care about their footwear. We like to be recognized for the things we care about.

And honestly, this advice has been pretty good to me! Sometimes people don’t care that much about their shoes, but that ends up being a story, too. It’ll go something like:

Me: I love your shoes!

Them: Oh, these? Really?

Me: Yeah. They look comfortable.

Them: I guess they’re comfortable. I bought them at Target. They’re just basic Target shoes. [Here we see the person begin to shift. Thoughts start bubbling.] Actually, Target has a lot of good shoes! I end up buying all my shoes there. I have bought nice, expensive shoes but I find I never wear them; and then all of a sudden, all my favorite shoes are Target shoes. And they’re so cheap! And they’re vegan, because of course, because Target isn’t going to invest in leather. And I know Target is horrible and everything, but I guess I feel kind this secret comfort in being able to spend $20 on a pair of shoes that I know I’m going to love and I’m going to wear, and no one is probably ever going to ask about them because they’re fairly basic, so no one has to know that I got them at Target. Well, except you, now.

Maybe it seems I’m being dishonest about liking the shoes. Like, isn’t it kind of disingenuous to tell everyone you like their shoes? Doesn’t that cheapen it?

Well, yes and no. For one thing, I don’t tell everyone. I simply make it a point to look at people’s shoes and to decide I like them or not. I like most shoes. If I’m being honest, I tend not to compliment flip-flops. But that’s not because it would be a lie to say that I like flip-flops; and I’ll get to what I mean a little later.

First, let me take this opportunity to tell you about my shoes. I’m writing about shoes because I’m thinking about shoes. For the past decade, I have had some fierce brand loyalty to Keds in the spring and Salt Water Sandals in summer. Brand loyalty is capitalism at its best and worst, but I find it simplifying. It’s summer: I choose Salt Waters. No more decisions need to be made.

Salt Water Sandals are not vegan (sorry), but they do last pretty well. They have ankle straps, and you can wear them when you’re walking in the lake. I like the foot tan I get when I wear them. I like that they come in many, many colors. I like that you can “dress them up or dress them down,” so to speak. After one wear, they stretch to perfectly accommodate your exact foot width, and then you can just slip them on and off. Every summer I buy a new pair, rotating navy, red, and tan.

The foot tan I get when I wear them.

However, last summer I was pregnant, and my feet swelled up to foot-blimps. I was already a size 9.5, and suddenly I couldn’t squeeze into anything under a 10.5 — really more like an 11. (Something they don’t always tell you about pregnancy is that your feet don’t just swell, they can actually grow entire shoe sizes, and never go back.) Salt Waters no longer fit, and this felt like a literal tragedy. (Not for nothing, but I was hormonal.)

I went to the Crocs Store in downtown Chicago and observed that it was popular among incredibly cool-looking people. Like, there was a long line of (young! sunglasses-wearing! disaffected!) people, all buying multiple pairs of Crocs. (It turns out that between 2020 and 2021, Crocs saw an increase of 430 percent in sales, so no, I wasn’t seeing things.) My blimp-feet didn’t fit in most pairs of Crocs, but there was one kind of ugly yellow sandal I could squeeze into.

At the high school where I work, my class starts Fridays in a desk-free circle. Seated in a circle, shoes are very much on display. I felt so ashamed of my gross yellow Croc-sandals and my unwillingness to get my toenails painted. (I couldn’t reach them myself, and I always feel a little weird getting a pedicure.) I pleaded with the students that when I was no longer pregnant, I would have cooler shoes. Six months later, I wore a pair of Doc Martens to school, and a student said, “Oh thank God. I have been waiting and waiting and waiting for you to wear cooler shoes, and I thought all hope was lost. But those are cool. Just wear those from now on.” I didn’t heed this, because you guys, Doc Martens are heavy!

But shoes definitely matter to today’s high schoolers, is my point. In the early 2000s, I remember wearing one pair of red Reeboks for my entire high school tenure and feeling resourceful and trendy enough. My students now are constantly browsing shoe websites (the most popular one is GOAT), choosing $500 sneakers, saving up for them, buying them, and wearing them with great caution. (You can’t get them dirty. That’s a rule.) Chuck Taylors continue to enjoy cult hipness among the ‘90s-throwback punk set, with chunky Doc Martens as an acceptable winter alternative. They talk about shoes during class breaks. “What shoes does he wear?” is a first-five question you ask someone when they’re dating someone new.

Meanwhile, I notice that a certain type of older woman also likes to talk about shoes — but in a totally different way. On the topic table: arch support, plantar fasciitis, sole inserts, multiple width options, and “I stood all day in them and wasn’t bothered with aches.” It sounds like I’m maybe making fun of this, but I’m not! I find all shoe stuff pretty interesting.

Because, when you think about it, it’s wild that we evolved like this: to be heavy, giant animals that have to walk around on two, flat, multi-toed appendages. If you walked around barefoot outside all the time, over pointy rocks and bugs and stuff, maybe your feet would strengthen to accommodate all you’re asking them to do; but most of us have comically weak feet. Over the pandemic, our collective foot problems soared: people working from home walked around barefoot all day and are now reporting new foot and back pain and unprecedented levels. (Here’s an NYT article that details this phenomenon, and ends with ideas for helping your own feet.)

And I’ve noticed that my own older, heavier body has been affected by this particular summer of Salt Waters. When I put on my running shoes (for the greatly occasional jog I take when I have it together), I notice how much easier it is to get from here to there with the cushioning and support that comes with those shoes. I’m wondering if maybe it’s time for me to become one of “those women.” Why should I be in pain if I don’t need to be?

But ultimately, I appreciate what shoes symbolize. Shoes say, “Let’s go outside. Let’s see something. Let’s have an adventure.” Amazingly, no matter how flimsy, shoes carry your entire body. They hold you. They bring you forward. They encourage motion. They connect you to the earth, while simultaneously giving you a little distance from it. They are such a human invention: something concrete to help us explore, see, know, discover.

I love anything that will carry a person’s entire body forward. It really doesn’t matter what shape it takes. I’m grateful for the invention that you’ve chosen to support you. So when I say, “I like your shoes!” I mean it.

(That said: it feels great to be barefoot. But we’d never know how great it felt if it weren’t for shoes to provide the contrast! May you get your toes in some cool grass sometime soon.)