Any time I have a little extra money burning a hole in my pocket, I love to go shoe shopping. I know that I am perpetuating a female stereotype, but I really don’t care too much about that because I have a real fetish for footwear.
Having said that, here is the Romeo and Juliet “star-crossed lover” aspect of my situation: I have size eleven feet. I know this may seem a substantial size for a woman and I hope no one actually gasped out loud, but I am six feet tall so it really isn’t too outrageous.
Before I had children, I wore a size ten and never really thought too much about it one way or the other because there were still plenty of cute shoe choices available to me. What I discovered after my feet grew that extra bit was that, in addition to the world not being ergonomically designed for people taller than five eight, the realm of footwear is also severely lacking once you advance into the double digits.
According to the Internet, the average shoe size for women is an eight. I tend to believe this figure based on the vast selection of size eights I’ve seen at every shoe retailer I have ever frequented in my life. My sister wears a size eight which annoys me to no end because all those women just do not realize how lucky they are.
I have never been able to find my size at a department store and every time I’ve inquired, I am directed to the catalog department as if I have freakishly large clown feet and don’t deserve to sport designer styles. I don’t like to order things I can’t try on because I’m too impatient to wait and I don’t like returning merchandise.
I experience more success at shoe stores and places like Walmart where they at least entertain the idea that women who wear my size actually exist. If anyone is curious to know what shoe shopping is like for someone like me, go into one of these stores and pause to admire the variety presented in sizes eight and nine. Next, take a cursory glance at the slightly smaller selection of tens, but don’t blink before you get to the beginning of the men’s section next to the store room because you’ll miss the designated area for size eleven which is mixed in with the even more unfortunate size twelve.
Somewhere along the way, shoe makers decided that mass-producing a sandal larger than a size ten was an indecent abomination. This results in some depressive moods for me when spring comes around and I see the adorable new styles that are not attainable for women like me.
It isn’t like I have ugly feet or anything. In my opinion, they have a perfectly normal shape and lack any deformities like bunions and extra-long second toes. My husband says I have monkey toes, but I believe he’s just a little envious because I am able to pinch and pick things up with my dexterous digits.
The Internet also informs me that Paris Hilton wears a size eleven. Even though, in my judgmental opinion, Paris is a spoiled rich girl who doesn’t deserve a fraction of the fame she has attained, I often daydream about writing Miss Hilton a heart-felt letter pleading with her to generously donate to me any of her discarded, out-of-style footwear.
Maybe it is time for us grande-sized ladies to make our presence known and band together to demand pedal recognition. In case that day never comes, anyone who knows someone that may have ties to the Hilton family, please give them my email address.
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