I’ve always felt guilty for not writing about wide-width shoes.
Here I am, slingin’ verbs for Manolo the Shoeblogger, I own…well I don’t know how many shoes, but I can see <countcountcount> 14 pair and six stragglers, and that’s just on the baby grand I spite-bought a few years ago because you know, I’m mature like that.
Anyway, I’ve got fat feet, the best or maybe second-best (Style Spy still probably beats me) shoe collection of anyone I know, and a whole awesome audience full of women who just want pretty shoes to fit their fat feet. It ought to be a no-brainer.
You know how there are writers who do research and write complex, beautifully articulated prose? Yeah. Those people are suckers. I’ve been at a newspaper since I was 22 and still I resent having to Google, so funk that unbiased reportage noise. I am at heart a gonzo journalist. If I can’t talk about it from personal experience, I’m probably not gonna talk about it at all.
Because this is a personality-driven blog I really only feel comfortable recommending things I’d put on myself or someone I styled. I have a hard time pulling a piece for the blog that –however cute– doesn’t meet my personal quality standards. It just seems like dirty pool, particularly if I’m in the position to make a buck off it. It’s like “Oh I wouldn’t ever wear that rag, but it’s fine for you, since you’re infinitely less glamorous and stylish than I could ever be. Thanks for the cash though!” I mean I’m a jerk, but I’m not THAT big a jerk.
I know not everyone has a ton of discretionary income to toss around. I certainly don’t and I don’t have kids or a mortgage or a scorching coke habit to deal with. It’s just me and the dog, and the dog is used. So while I know some folks read the blog as aspirational, I never intended to be that way.
When I first started writing for the blog, I wrote about my life; my stuff, my shoes, my utter incapability of maintaining a healthy adult relationship with a man who is in possession of both an American passport and his marbles. You know, the whole rich Plumcake pageantry. I purposefully didn’t make this an aspirational blog because honestly, unless you yearn to wake up in your shower naked except for fake hair, a roll of tin foil and a pair of cowboy boots (true story, 27th birthday party) I’m really not much of an aspirational figure. (No, I don’t know where the tin foil came from, but I do seem to recall a very short gay man holding my hair on while I danced. That happens to you guys too, right?)
So what does this have to do with fat feet?
Basically this: It’s slim pickings when it comes to wide shoes I’d actually buy. Aside from the aesthetic aspect, I don’t wear shoes made in countries known for sweatshop labor (you pick your battles, this is one of mine.) That pretty much leaves us with Stuart Weitzman and Salvatore Ferragamo and since I don’t wear Ferragamo, I’d pretty much be posting the same half-dozen Stewies over and over again. No one wants that.
Yet, like a baby in a tumble dryer, I can only ignore your cries for so long. You want wide width shoes, you’re gettin’ em. All week long. That being said, these get the Plumcake Seal of Approval on design alone. I don’t have experience with the brands. I’ve never touched ’em, held ’em, tried ’em on. You’re on your own out there, ducklings. Make your own call.