Hands and feet
My hands are dapple-gray like a horse at the moment, but that’s okay—it means five or six years, maybe more, before I have to go shoe-shopping again.
If shoes weren’t necessary, I’d go without them. Honestly, I’d do less damage to my feet that way. Whether it’s the sheer dearth of choice in a women’s size ten and a half to eleven, or something odd about the shape and movement patterns of my feet, most shoes I’ve ever tried—including some I’ve actually bought in desperation—just plain shred my feet to pieces.
For the last three or four years, I’ve been wearing an ugly pair of Munro clodhoppers just about everywhere, because by gosh they didn’t shred my feet, and by gosh they actually lasted that long. (Six months is pretty good for a pair of workhorse shoes on me; I walk a lot compared to most people. Six times six months is outright astonishing.) Unfortunately, they’re coming to the end of their lifecycle—the soles are getting thin, the uppers shabby, and I recently had to do a quick-fix to the buckle elastic that isn’t going to hold for very long.
A while back one of my favorite seconds/overstock catalogs suddenly featured my shoes. Closeout, they said. Uh-oh, I said, and cruised to the website to see what they had in my size.
Ten and a half wide, yay! Denim blue. Um. Not my preferred workhorse shoe color. I bought two pair anyway. If I have to look stupid for the next five to eight years, it’s worth it if my feet don’t hurt.
Unwilling to look like a complete dork unnecessarily, however, I cruised the web for shoe dye. Another ten bucks procured me a bottle of basic black, and now my next two pairs of workhorse Munro clodhoppers are drying on the balcony. They’ll need another coat, but they’ll do.
My hands are stained, but my feet are happy.