Life Lessons From My Size 42 Feet
Decades on, I still remember it. He didn’t mean to upset me. In fact, my boyfriend thought he’d come up with the best birthday present ever. And for another woman, the idea of being whisked off for a surprise shoe shopping expedition would have been irresistible. But for years my size 42 feet had made shoe shopping an ordeal, so instead of thrilling me, my boyfriend’s well-intentioned birthday surprise filled me with a deep sense of humiliation – something he just couldn’t understand.
And no wonder. To understand, you would have to walk, if not a mile in my shoes, at least a block or two. I’ve always had hard-to-hit feet. Even back in primary school, there was only one brand of school shoe that fitted me, and naturally it was the ugliest, clunkiest, most expensive brand. As for shopping for other shoes, well, at least it was quick. The sales assistant would measure my feet, then show me the two pairs of shoes in the store that would fit.
It got worse when I became a teenager. Of course it did. I had the standard-issue dramas – the pimples, the braces, the ambivalent relationship with a changing body – but what I fixated on was my feet. In my early teens I was already a size 42, not that I ever admitted that to anyone. Not even to salespeople in shoe shops. Instead of volunteering my size, I’d just ask what their largest size was – usually a 39, occasionally a 40 – and then I would try that on, knowing it was doomed but hoping for a miracle.
I tormented myself by wandering for hours through chic stores looking at gorgeous shoes that would never fit me. I would marvel at the rainbow of colours – forest greens and watermelon pinks, glowing reds and metallic blues (it was the ’80s) – and at the dazzling range of styles, from lace-up boots to strappy heels. Like Cinderella, I knew that if I could just find the right pair of shoes, my life would be transformed. Like the evil stepsisters, I was willing to go to extreme lengths to make it happen.
I bought stylish shoes that were too small and told myself that they weren’t, even as my toes loudly disagreed. I carried them home in triumph, convinced that my life was about to change. I would even wear them once or twice, feet covered in prophylactic Band-Aids, then spend the next week hobbling around on blistered feet. After that, the shoes would be relegated to my wardrobe, evoking an uncomfortable blend of guilt and desire each time I looked at them.
““The sales assistant would measure my feet, then show me the two pairs of shoes in the store that would fit.””
Occasionally I would strike it lucky. There was the time when I miraculously found a pair of low-heeled purple pumps in my size that not only looked chic but were also comfortable. I have never loved a pair of shoes as fiercely as I loved those. I wore them not just to the end of their natural lifespan but well beyond, refusing to acknowledge the scuffed toes and the unstable heels.
My mother suggested it was time to get rid of them. I refused. We argued. Eventually, tired of arguing, my mother threw them in the bin one garbage night. Equally tired of arguing, and equally stubborn, I waited until she had gone to bed and got them back out. I defiantly wore them for a few more months, until they literally fell apart.
Fortunately, those days are long since passed. Shoemakers have added sizes 41 and 42 to their ranges, acknowledging that even women with big feet want to look good. I can now walk into a shoe shop without a sense of shame. I accept that my long feet are perfectly in proportion to my long legs, and are not a punishment the universe has deliberately chosen to inflict on me.
Despite all the pain that my large feet caused me over the years, they did teach me some valuable lessons – lessons that, I soon realised, could be equally applied in all areas of life. I learnt not to invite pain into my life, no matter how pretty a package it came in. I learnt that when you have something you love, it pays to look after it well. Most of all I learnt that, no matter how badly you want something, sometimes it just ain’t gonna happen.
For a 14-year-old who desperately wanted to have just one pair of cool shoes, it was an excruciating lesson. But it’s a lesson I’m glad I learnt early. Sooner or later in life, we all discover there is something we want with a passion but can’t have – and the first time it happens, it burns fiercely.
It might be a relationship we are single-handedly trying to keep alive. It might be increasingly desperate attempts to have a baby, or the hunger to have more time to spend with a family member who is dying too soon. Whatever it is, sooner or later we are forced to confront the reality that some things are simply out of reach and will stay that way. It’s a harsh lesson to learn – and I’m glad the first time I learnt it, it was over something as insignificant as a pair of shoes.
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