I have a pair of Charles & Keith sandals that I still think are pretty.
That’s probably why they’ve survived this long.
They’ve been with me for years.
They’re a soft blush pink, delicate without being overly feminine, with thin straps that wrap around the foot in that effortless-looking way that is never actually effortless to put on.
They still look good.
They’re still wearable.
There is technically nothing wrong with them.
Except they hurt.
Not immediately, of course.
That would make the decision much easier.
For the first few minutes, they’re perfectly fine. I can walk around in them. I can look down at my feet and think, See? They’re still good.
Then I walk a little farther.
And the straps start making themselves known.
A little pressure here. A little rubbing there.
Nothing dramatic. Nothing that would make me stop in the middle of the mall and dramatically fling my shoes into a trash bin.
Just enough discomfort to make me aware of my feet.
And once I become aware of my feet, I stay aware of them.
Every. Single. Step.
Which is annoying because when I go out, I like to wander.
And then 2 hours pass and the real pain begins.
I like walking into a store because something in the window caught my attention. I like taking the longer route because I remembered another shop I wanted to visit. I like saying, Wait, let’s go upstairs first, when technically we were already supposed to be heading home.
I don’t want my shoes deciding when I’ve had enough.
And yes, I could probably make these work.
I could put something on the straps.
I could bring plasters.
I could wear them only when I know I won’t be walking very far.
But that rarely happens.
I could keep them in my closet for those very specific occasions when the outfit is right, the destination is right, the amount of walking is right, and apparently Mercury is also in the correct position.
I could.
But lately, I’ve been thinking:
Why am I working this hard for a pair of shoes?
Especially when I own other pairs that let me forget I’m wearing them.
That, I think, is my new standard.
Not just: Is it still pretty?
Not just: Can I still use it?
Not even: Can I make it work?
But:
Does it let me stay?
Can I wear it through lunch and then decide I want dessert somewhere else?
Can I browse another floor?
Can I walk around a bookstore for an unreasonable amount of time?
Can I say yes to one more stop without immediately calculating how much longer my feet can tolerate my shoes?
Because I’ve realized that comfort gives me something pretty things alone cannot.
Time.
More time at the table.
More time wandering.
More time exploring.
More time enjoying wherever I chose to go.
More time walking around, holding hands with my son.
And maybe that’s why these sandals suddenly feel different to me now.
They haven’t changed.
I have.
There was a time when still wearable would have been enough reason to keep something.
It still works.
It still looks good.
I paid good money for it.
Maybe I can fix it.
Maybe I can tolerate it.
Maybe I can make it work.
I don’t think that way as much anymore.
I don’t want to build my life around what I can tolerate.
Not when there are things that are beautiful and comfortable.
Not when I can choose something that doesn’t require a strategy just to enjoy it.
So these pretty pink sandals?
They’re still pretty.
They’re still wearable.
Someone else might put them on and wonder what I was complaining about.
But they hurt me.
And these days, that’s enough.
I don’t need to wait until something is completely broken before I let it go.
I don’t need to prove I tried every possible way to make it work.
And I certainly don’t need to keep hurting myself just because something still looks beautiful from the outside.
I’d rather wear the comfortable shoes.
And stay a little longer.
—-
With elegance and quiet fire,
Lady E
Founder, Glow by Lady E
An editorial space for stories, art, and intentional living
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