However much I might try to avoid it, my fate is inescapable. I will be forever doomed to wearing unsuitable footwear. However many times I check the forecast, or repeatedly stick my arm out of the window in the morning to test the temperature, undoubtedly I will curse my choices later in the day as the realisation that I am wearing unsuitable footwear sinks in.
This normally occurs at approximately 9:02am and is followed by feelings of both shame and envy simultaneously. I am on the tube and I can feel the stares. The stares of those who have cautiously chosen a wool and cashmere blend sock to ease the transition of foot to heavy-tread leather boots, those who have taken the initiative to wear pop-socks with their ballerinas in a beige-hue that tricks the untrained eye into thinking, ‘This person isn’t even wearing socks!’ and of those who choose comfort over style in running shoes. This latter person I may well judge, we all know they’re not going running, but then who am I to judge really? Who wins in the end? By 4 in the afternoon on a rainy day wearing ballerinas with bare-naked metatarsal and achilles to the wind, I can guess that Mr. Running Shoes has a bigger smile on his face than I.
Perhaps this is where I should take comfort. Perhaps, my unsuitable choices of footwear are one last rebellion, one final stick-it-to-the-man that is adulthood. To me, suitable footwear represents responsibilities that I am not ready to accept which include (non-exhaustive); wearing suitable clothes and acting in an altogether suitable fashion. The next time I feel rain water seeping through my soles, or damp socks clinging to my prune-like toes from wading through snow in non-waterproof boots, I will hold my head high, flaunting my irresponsibility and impractical choices driven by youth. Surely that can’t be such a bad thing?