The Shoes That Sealed My Fate As An Old Lady Who Values Comfort / by Olivia Hall

There were days when I legit wore 6-inch heels every day. I used to walk miles--NYC Miles--in Kork-Ease Bette's. They don't make them anymore--an always fabulous and shithead statement--but these shits were a wet blowjob of a shoe and I wore them with cutoff shorts and spaghetti straps because I was tryna get fucked pretty much all the time. Bending over was like target practice!

Well, I'm engaged now. 

When my mom was visiting me and my soon-to-be betrothed, she saw my favorite flatforms--the beginning of the end--and was not pleased with the fact that they were worn down to the point where ankle rolls were just part of my gait. So she offered to buy me some shoes, as moms do when they want to regain control of your life. Naturally, she got me these:

Yes yes yes. I know. They are like the poor schlumpy cousin of Nike Frees. But GODDAMN do they feel like walking on marshmallows. Motherfucking marshmallows. These little, speckled beauties may make my feet look like they are being bound by my surrender, but guess what: MARSHMALLOWS. Oh, and I don't have to wear socks with them because they breathe and I can put them in the washing machine AND the dryer. Whatever man, convenience is key. 

ALSO, once I saw a very fashionable woman at Dover Street Market wearing similar shoes (ok they were just Nike Frees that were a little worn-in) and she looked very VERY cool. So, suck it. 

Don't you think for a second I still don't have that high-ass striding slut inside me anymore. She's there, just she needs her naps and the most major bending over she does is in her herb garden.