Now My Shoes Are All Running

I’m not sure if this is something to be proud of, or whether I should hang my head in shame.

I’ve reached the point where my shoes are all running. Running shoes, that is. Short course, long course, trail running, kickboxing (a pair of Hokas that did not work out for running, but made the grade for kickboxing because they’re heavy). If I had to go to an event that required a nice pair of flats or heels, I would have to go shopping at this point.

Of course, I’ve reached the age and stage in life where comfort is queen of all that matters. I spent enough years in the workforce, in dress shoes, standing on my feet for hours, to earn the right to mitigate the agony of my feet. And that’s on top of surgically repaired feet (pins and plates in both) and the sheer pounding of the pavement from decades of races.

I wish walking barefoot was possible, but it’s a challenge with flat feet. Flip-flops are annoying. Two-strap, flat sandals work well (I have a pair for going to and from swim practice that needs replacing at the moment). I am definitely not one of those women for whom shoe shopping is retail therapy. The very idea of an afternoon spent stepping in and out of footwear, parading past ankle-high mirrors, and trying to decide how to spend too much money on yet another fleeting fashion fixation just kills brain cells for me. I’d rather head to my known and trusted running store, pick the brand I know, check the new styles, and hope they have them in my size (my nickname is Bigfoot. Size 11 running shoe).

I don’t think stilettoes, sparkly sandals, or pointy-toed platforms are a bad thing if that’s what you like, and what makes you feel special, gorgeous, and strong. I’m saying I am over those days and into decently padded, laced-up, double-knotted comfort. My closet shoe rack looks a little strange, but my feet have never felt better.