On shoes

This is the second entry in our new 10-part nightlife editorial series, produced by Dirt & Elsewhere. Get caught up:

Gates of Hell

Whitney Mallett on her nightlife footwear.

My worst habit has been wearing shoes that don’t fit. My second worst habit, ketamine, conveniently has a numbing effect. The last time I went to Unter, Brooklyn’s Berlin-coded rave that lasts all night long, I wore a pair of shoes two sizes too small: Diesel booties, with a low heel, peep toe, and an exposed zip. I was being vain, and before I left the house, I was already in pain.

To rank my pain according to the Wong-Baker Faces scale, I’d say the feeling at the start of the night was a two, “hurts little bit,” the face a pinched smile. On the Uber back home the pain was an eight, “hurts whole lot,” the face lacerated by a big frown. I didn’t make it to ten, “hurts most,” with tears. As soon as I collapsed into the backseat, I took the shoes off, and from the car to my apartment front door, I let my fishnet-body-stockinged feet touch cement.

In the dark of a party like that, I’m not sure anyone was paying attention to what I had on my feet. The shoes weren’t for compliments, they were for me: a uniform I suffered to get in the mindset of the fantasy. 

Or, I just didn’t realize how bad it would be.

Why do I even have shoes that don’t fit?

The Diesel booties were a steal, thrifted for $45 and when I tried them on in-store, I thought they felt fine even though I wear 41 and their hardly-touched bottoms were etched with the number 39. The shopping endorphin high must have dulled the pain. Had I even walked around?