Comfort shoes are no comfort

When I was a child, my ultimate idea of being an adult was defined by a sound. TAP. TAP. TAP. The echo of my mother’s high-heels on the pavement. For obvious reasons, namely my large hoofers and the fact that my height already equals four pairs of stilettos, I will never experience this thrilling resonance. I am sentenced to a life of converse sneakers, sensible flats, moccasins and… silence.

Why is it that shoe companies assume that ladies with big feet have terrible taste, no personality and/or are over 60? Comfort is not the main thing. Comfortable shoes are no comfort to me. With my luck, this predicament will not be rectified until I am 80. I can just picture myself with my pastel nylon dress, visor, support tights and devastating pair of Marc Jacobs kitten heels. Then, and only then, will I finally feel like an adult.