I like mildly boring sometimes practical interestingly-made (often brown) cute shoes. We’re going to take a walk through my shoe (closet) and true to form, this is not a fashion Non-Blog.

Just strut me. OK, autocorrect did that but I won’t fight it! What follows is a collection of (revealing) stories.

To be fair, shoes have never really been my thing but every now and then they get to me: I once almost took another’s girls shoes from country road because they were the last size 5 (she’d kept them aside) and they were literally the most perfect (and expensive!) Pinterest dreams come to life. I was willing to part with the ridiculous lump sum but thanks to my conscious: there is a now a pair that got away. If you’re reading this Dream Shoe Owner whose shoes I (mercifully) did not “steal”, I’ll take them 2nd-hand if you’d like to win your own share of good-ish karma.

The ones that got away

While brown shoes make up the bulk of my wardrobe (they go with EVERYTHING) Pops of colour excite me and I’m still waiting for my perfect mustard yellow short block heels that I’ve been in love with for years to cross my path in real life. Should they: I’ll never take them off and would possibly consider doing a (psychiatry) call with them on the entire time.
I should probably disclose now, that I was fairly late to the high heel game having been a tomboy for most of my adolescence and not understanding the merits of voluntary discomfort and the near-constant threat of falling (also voluntarily). I mean what kind of shoes need you to dedicate actual time to learn to walk in them? Wow, that was unappealing to my teenage brain (my adult brain too come to think of it, hence the great stiletto purge of 2015)! Anyhow, I’ve learned the error of my ways with the compromise that teenage self had a good point given my fairly recent revelation that I’m about as graceful as a duck* but look good a few inches above the ground.

Last word on heels : I have a pretty standard go-to type (pictured in the gallery below) and my steadfastness in this regard has (graciously) given my friends, and anyone else who might be interested, a variety of very clear options should they ever decide to gift me a pair #Easy30thGiftIdeas (consult gallery for instruc-er, inspiration).
Note: The mustard yellow ones will get you Hall of Fame friendship status (or whatever stops short of transactional).

The Ones

I lowkey regret the loss of my multi-coloured sneakers but to be fair, I never wore them. The sneakers that I did wear, however, were my Chucks. My long and complex history with Converse, All Stars that spans decades (I’m 26) is tangled with my super cool great grandmother, the assertion of my tomboy identity and the representation of a younger me that I cherish. They were only shoes my mother let go unwashed at my express command and we’d reached a comfortable compromise on the laces which had to be washed regularly (she caved at the end of every term but still).
My grandfather’s mother was a wonderful and mischievous human. She’d pinch me as a child when I annoyed her or misbehaved instead of giving me a hiding so there’d be no evidence and nothing to justifiably cry about when my mom got home. She wore shirts inside dresses like your Fav hipster Instagramer and was the life of the party, getting all the way down at any given time despite being born the same year as the Titanic. She was free in a way I didn’t know adults could be and was the only grown human I’d seen wear them (Chucks). When she died I convinced myself that they laid her to rest in them despite how incredibly unlikely that that is.
I am still distraught that that’s what they managed to take from me when they tried to harm me and my friends after the Beyonce concert (OK, the Global Citizen Concert), but considering what they were trying to do to or take from us, it was a worthwhile trade. And maybe her spirit was protecting her not-nearly-as-cool but solidly-attempting granddaughter from harm. My Chucks are important to me and there may or may not be a miniature replica hanging in my car next to my rosary as a result.

In other shoe ties, I started an order for dangerous** women that I christened: the Order of the Spiked Stiletto after a pair of (student) leather heels owned by my friend Kgotso of the black and spiked variety. Kgotso is a shoe fiend who unsuccessfully (and half-heartedly) attempts to hide her disdain for my taste in shoes. They’re a scarily sexy pair of shoes (incidentally scarily sexy is a good way to describe almost all of Kgotso’s shoes). It was supposed to inspire us to own and advance our internal sexiness, or something like that because a) we never really developed a mission statement and b) our namesake shoe evoked the image of a vixen bringing a man to his knees by placing said dangerous shoe upon his chest (whilst still on her foot obviously) and the sheer force of her sexuality. As such, I’m proud of my plum velvet (if sometimes uncomfortable) heels which are perhaps as close to the Order as I’m going to get while staying true to form. And isn’t that what the order was all about (was it? Is it? I’m not sure if we’re still operational)***?

Anyway, I thank God everyday for the fashionistas (like Sharleen Joynt and Nikisha Brunson) I follow who also prefer “boring” shoes with pops of interest for keeping me feeling normal. I always understood that I was supposed to LOVE shoes, which to be fair, in my own way I do: I have been on a 12 year (and counting) crusade to own original Timbs for goodness sake! I love each and every one of my often boring mostly brown always beautifully made interesting shoes. Boring is relative: find your own version of sexy, love what you like and never let them steal your Chucks, I mean smile.

*(an insult to ducks actually: they tread water so beautifully)
**(direct translation of the Sotho word kotsi, which means the same thing but can also be a compliment. One my mom used for my most fire looks)
**Submissions for the order of the spiked stilettos are accepted pending approval from management.