I’ve learned a thing or two in my 30 years of life, and one of those things is this: comfort > style.
I’m not exactly rolling into work in my pajamas or anything, but let’s just say I’ve embraced a flexible definition of the word “pants.” So yesterday morning, when I was deciding what to wear and I wanted to go with the Nice Black Shoe option, I came to a crossroads.
I like the Nice Black Shoes
from Target, but the Nice Black Shoes don’t like me. By mid-day I’m always cursing my choice of footwear, kind of like every single time I choose heels.
However, I have recently become acquainted with the wonder that is those little tiny socks that go inside of flats. I have no idea what people who have not been living under a rock for the past decade call them. But yesterday, as soon as I was ready to say “Whatever, Nice Black Shoes, I’m just going to wear boots again for the 87th consecutive day since November,” I remembered that now, I can wear socks under the Nice Black Shoes! I can be comfortable and stylish!
And here’s where we begin to decline.
Because the tiny socks weren’t quite tiny enough to fit under the Nice Black Shoes. And by that I mean they took up a significant amount of real estate on the It’s Supposed To Just Be Foot Right There portion of the shoe.
In the dim morning light of my bedroom I decided this wasn’t a problem for me. From a distance, I figured, no one would know the difference. They look like they could be part of the shoe, right? I’d just look like I was wearing black shoes, which is exactly what I was doing… plus some bonus sock action.
I even took a picture to prove my point. The fact that the distortion makes me look like a giant with absurdly tiny feet is really the icing on the cake of this moment.
See? This is a great fashion choice and a completely covert operation.
Except that it wasn’t, unless I’m going the way of pants and also employing a generous definition of the word “covert.”
So. There’s that.
I made it halfway through the day feeling pretty good about my shoe situation (and pretty comfortable, might I add) until I started seeing people outside of my cubicle over lunch.
In the downstairs kitchen:
Jenny: “So, are we going to talk about what’s going on with your socks? Because that’s a pretty bold move.”
About an hour later, in the upstairs kitchen:
Tori: “Are those new shoes?”
Me: “No, but they might look different because of the socks.”
Tori: “Oh no, I totally noticed the socks, I just wasn’t going to say anything.”
Side note: you always know who your real friends are, because they are the ones who, one way or another, are going to introduce you to the fact that you look ridiculous.
And while I appreciated their concern for my downward spiral into the world of regrettable fashion decisions, I didn’t even kind of care. This, I’ve learned, is the beauty of being in your 30s. I will see your -10 style points and raise you +100 comfort points because I didn’t hate my life in the Nice Black Shoes today.
And at least I wasn’t wearing boots again.
Which I may or may not be wearing right now.
Whatever, I’m 30.