The Shoes I Wore, and the People They Let Me Become
Reading clothing catalogs is always a confusing experience for me. Alice, from Lewis Carrol’s Alice in Wonderland once said “Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast. ” Well, give me a Forever 21 Catalog, and I can become 6 impossible people before my Snooze alarm goes off. Watch me. Becoming a different you is overwhelming. But sometimes, we all need a little “reinventing.”
Time for a little pop psychology. “Multiple-Personality Disorder” is not a correct term. Not in vogue anymore. It’s 2017, the year of spaghetti bagels, men in rompers, belfies (or was that last year?) and probably gender-neutral tampons. It’s “Dissociative Identity Disorder” now. Apparently, it’s characterized by at least two distinct and relatively enduring identities or dissociated personality states. These states alternately show in a person's behavior, and are not accounted for by substance abuse, seizures, or other medical conditions, nor by imaginative play in children. It’s also apparently among the most controversial additions to the DSM-5. Quasi-diagnosed cases are increasing in number while, simultaneously, a growing number of experts claim that the criteria are too subjective, falsifiable. They suggest that not a single true case has ever ever existed.
Ladies and gentlemen, after years of research and toiling in a white coat, I can present to you a true specimen. In fact, I invite you to go beyond meeting the subject- I’ll ask you to join me in embodying her. I’m a teenage girl donning a white Kate Spade coat, with years of experience in the field of Eerily Observing the Behaviour of Strangers, PhD. You can trust me. Join me as we enter the world of the “Female Flipping Through an H&M Catalog at a Crucial Turning Point in her Life.” The catalog has issues in Spring and Fall. Most people I know have more issues than Vogue - featuring “Breakup,” “Over Caffeination-Induced-Motivation-Spree,” “My-Balding-Boss-is-Terrifying,” “What-the-Hell-am-I-Doing-After-Graduation,” or even “I-REALLY-Don’t-Want-To-Put-Pants-On.” The pages of the catalog are shiny. You can see your face in them. So let’s have a moment of self-reflection. Pour yourself that Seasonal Latte with No Whipped Cream and let’s go shopping!
.....Or, maybe not. Each time I've attempted this, I always the catalog, sigh, and remember once again why I hate buying things. Perhaps I'm not alone in this? This whole “reinventing” thing is hard. Any purchase from that catalog would transform your whole life. Obviously. You just can’t decide which version of "YOU" you want to be.
And I get it. I know all the clothes you already have are there, probably lying on the floor, wrinkled into a sad little pile, resembling a crumpled napkin that we've all scribbled our "Awesome Startup Idea" onto. Or maybe the clothes are all sagging sadly, draped on the back of “The Chair”. We all have “The Chair”. More widespread than IKEA’s Poäng- the brand’s best-selling item. My “The Chair” is an IKEA Poäng, so clearly I’m incredibly original. It’s also named Phil, because my Swedish is no bueno. Phil could use a good dusting. “To dust” in Swedish is “till damm,”and I won't dust that chair till I damm well feel like it. Multiple Personality Disorder may be a result of some quack psychology, but retail therapy never seems to work for anyone.
But maybe there's another way.
The idea struck me while watching Forrest Gump. Specifically, while watching Forrest Gump and writing a paper. He stated “There’s an awful lot you can tell about a person by their shoes.” I stood up, abandoned my half-written thesis statement, and opened my closet.
I looked down at my small collection and realized it was true. In each pair of shoes I own, I walk differently. Have a different posture. I step out my door, run after a leaving train, or look someone in the eye...differently. The steps I take in each pair take me to different places. The elegant heels would take me to those big glass office buildings that I dreamed to someday enter, casually saying “Hello” to the doorman on my way to my own office. The heels would be clicking on the marble floor as I walked with confidence and probably annoyed anyone around who happened to be hungover. My worn black boots would take me to go to that small concert by a "rising talent" that you'll pretend to have heard of if I mention it. Or, they would make gentle thuds as I walk down the street to an art gallery, with The Wall playing in headphones that I should probably be more careful with. They’ll accompany me as I take some time to be unafraid to think, and not stare into my phone.
My little blue flats take me to the fountain in the park. Remind me to smile more. They tell me that twirling happily under a streetlight belongs on my to-do list. My edgy stilettos take me to go window shopping in the fancy stores for “inspiration.” They let me know that I don’t have to open my mouth to make a statement. They also remind me that shopping on Fifth Avenue would make anyone's bank statement very sad.
People say lots of things about shoes. And about walking. They say: “So many shoes, and only two feet!” They also say: “One can see further by walking on the shoulders of giants.” You see, now that sounds uncomfortable. And painful. Shoulders are lumpy. I don’t want to walk on anyone’s shoulders. I also don’t want to choose a particular person whose footsteps to follow; To be honest, if someone's leaving footsteps, either I'm following them into a bog, or their shoes are REALLY dirty. I'd certainly never want someone to follow MY footsteps - this girl walks into walls embarrassingly often.
Shoes are curious. A very successful friend of mine once told me she keeps a penny in her shoe, to remind herself that penniless was where she came from. When I go out to the club, I’ll be AWFULLY tempted to tell someone that I wish I could be their shoe, so I could be with them every step of the way (clearly, I get all the guys here.)
But maybe, instead of buying a new me online from Zara, I can find a way to walk in the footsteps of the girl I want to be. And I guess I’ve found a way. I scrawl the girl I want to be onto the bottoms of each of my shoes in black sharpie. “The future CEO,” “The Artist,” “The one who smiles,” “The one who makes you look.” I may not be walking in her footsteps. But, I choose what kind of footprints I'd like to leave that day and slip my shoes on. I can go wherever I go, making the footsteps of the girl I want to be. I take her with me, every step of the way.
Forrest Gump might decipher me by my shoes, but I’d rather walk down the street being the girl that you’d see if you saw my sole.
