During winters when I was a kid, my Dad insisted we wear real, proper shoes to school. I have no memory what type of shoes these were. Desert boots? Penny loafers, complete with shiny penny? Wee, child-sized Oxfords? No clue. I do vividly remember, however, the footwear I was desperate to wear to school instead. The footwear my father thought too flimsy to keep our feet warm through a New Jersey winter. The footwear I put in my bag and a few blocks from home, changed into, so desperate was I to have them on my feet, always. Sneakers.
Tennis shoes, trainers, runners, kicks, tekkies, plimsolls—call them what you will; I have had a life-long love affair with sneakers. I don’t know exactly what sparked this romance, but Starsky and Hutch (yes, I’m that old) definitely fanned the flames. My best friend and I were obsessed with the show. She loved Hutch. I was a Starsky girl. And I insisted on having running shoes that looked as close as possible to the blue Adidas Dave Starsky wore. In the curious murk of my budding sexuality, which for me meant I wasn’t sure if I wanted to be with someone or simply be someone, I would walk to school, look down and feel a warm wash of comfort; I had Starsky’s feet.
I outgrew my love for Starsky (not to mention his over-acting) but I never outgrew my love of sneakers. Every spring, for as long as I can remember, I get the hankering for a shiny new pair. I own many more pairs than I wear or need. I’ve gone through my Converse High Top phase, my Stan Smith phase, my Adidas Superstar phase. I have a pair of weird, random brand, blue and brown sneakers that I could get away with wearing to my last job on “casual Friday”; they were my “dress” sneakers. Right now, I’m obsessed with a pair of Pumas–black with a silver stripe–which feel, to me, equal parts sporty (they’re sneakers!) and stylish (they’re black!). I wear them virtually every day.
But here’s the thing; I’m not a particularly athletic person. I’m a big walker, every few years I become gym-obsessed and I love tennis, but as a kid I was a definite klutz and didn’t play any team sports. This love of sneakers doesn’t come naturally. And in some ways, that makes me feel guilty. If I don’t have these (at least) ten pairs of sneakers to play a sport, why are they in my closet? I fear I’m a sneaker poseur. But I can’t give them up.
At one point in my early teens, I decided I should look “girlier” (I don’t want to be Starksy after all! I want to bone Starsky!). So I started wearing a pair of suede platforms (which I thought were incredibly chic) as my day-to-day shoes, instead of my beloved sneakers. One afternoon I wore them baby-sitting and when my two charges wanted to run around the backyard I was horrified to find how truly awkward and clumsy the shoes made me. Or maybe they just enhanced my innate clumsiness. Either way, I was pretty much constantly in danger of turning an ankle. Not being able to run (away?) at any given moment somehow seemed—still seems—like an incredibly foolish choice. I hate the hesitancy and care that fancier, “proper” women’s shoes—good God, heels–often require. And even the best flats or boots, to me, are never as effortlessly comfortable as sneakers. When I see another woman tottering in sky-high heels, or doing that odd, forward-leaning clomp in four inch platforms I don’t think: Cute shoes! I think: I’m so glad that’s not me.
I have fashionable friends who insist that sneakers—particularly for women–are for working out or sports; nothing more. An adult woman wearing sneakers out in the world is somehow tacky or lazy or troublingly androgynous. But my fantasy outfit of perfect, strong, sexy femininity is a Katherine Hepburn-esque ensemble of chic, wide-legged trousers and a pair of Jack Purcell’s. Sadly, I’ve never quite been able to pull it off, without looking a touch more, well, let’s just say lesbionic than I’d like (considering one of these days I would like to finally meet my Starsky).
But even though they’re not the height of women’s fashion, I love my sneaks. Though I’m hardly a “bouncy” person, when I’m wearing sneakers, there’s a spring in my step. I feel capable. Strong. In control. I know where my center of gravity is. And I feel, to a certain extant, like I know who I am. Maybe not an athlete, but not quite a “lady” either (perish the thought). A little bit tomboy, a little bit slob, a little bit Starsky? I guess that will have to do. At least I’m not thinking about my feet.
And really, who cares if I’m not a jock; sneakers were actually invented in the 19th century by a British police officer who designed the rubber sole so he could silently “sneak” up on criminals. So there you go. I’m not a cop, either. And you can pull my sneakers from my cold, dead feet.
Photo Credit: Adidas
