Uncomfy Shoe Manifesto

Is It Pressure or Is It Pain?

Lately, when I get home and take off my shoes, I find blood spots on the back of my socks. Stark-white socks dyed with neat red dots. The skin on the back of my heels is quite thin, blistering, peeling, and bleeding upon coming in contact with the slightest of friction. It’s quite hard for me to tell which aspect of my shoes is aggravating my heels. I have some pairs of shoes that are too small and others that are too big. Some that have survived a decade, that I’ve worn down to the bone. Others that I purchased more recently in the wrong size because I was too nervous or tired to ask the store clerk for a larger one. You would think that the too-small pairs would cause the blisters - squeezing my heels and toes to a degree that leaves an impression on my skin. But the too-big pairs are also a pain, causing my foot to slide around and rub repeatedly against the heel, conjuring blisters like smoke to rubbed sticks.

I probably know a good deal more about feet than the average person. I worked as a pointe shoe fitter for several years in school. Pointe shoes are a much more technical shoe to size and fit than street shoes, as they’re produced in different lengths, widths, depths, and many other specifications. The “box” can be hard or soft, the “shank” can be flexible or rigid, and so on. The process of fitting a dancer for her first pair is highly individualized and cumbersome, involving an hour or more of trying on shoes and tweaking the brand or size according to what the dancer wants or needs. Most dancers begin with a quite stiff shank or sole, which provides optimal support as they hone their technique. As the dancer advances, gaining greater ankle strength and stability, she’ll typically opt for a more flexible shoe, in which she can articulate her arches and demonstrate her hard-earned control.

I spent many hours on my hands and knees squeezing and prodding at dancers’ feet to determine the right shoe. I slid the shoes on for them and instructed them to hold onto the barre and rise onto their toes. It was charming to see young girls react to being en pointe for the first time - to see the look of astonishment as they balanced upon, essentially, a block of cardboard and paste, squeezing their abdominals to avoid putting excessive weight on their toes. Some were surprised by the lightness, others were struck by pain. My goal as a fitter was to prevent dancers from feeling excessive agony in their shoes, but also to find pairs that provided enough support to help protect them from injuries. Finding the right location on the pain-pressure continuum.

The youngest dancers - usually around ten or eleven - were predictably the ones with the greatest trouble with uncomfortable shoes, yelping in pain as they rose onto each pair. I can’t wear the shoes for them, so I could only base my adjustments on what they told me they were feeling.

“They hurt,” the young dancers would tell me.

“Where does it hurt?” I would ask.

“On my feet,” they would reply unhelpfully. 

“Is it pressure or is it pain?” I would pry. “There is a difference between pressure and pain, we want pressure but no pain. These are pointe shoes, they won’t be comfortable, but they shouldn’t be painful. Which do you feel?”

“I don’t know.”

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Lately, on my office commute, I’m struck by how physically uncomfortable I am walking to the subway. I’m only a two-minute walk from the nearest L stop, but the journey feels slightly more strenuous in my work ensemble. My job doesn’t have a dress code, but I always experience some self-imposed pressure to dress up. Perhaps I’m too brainwashed by Sex and the City, the corporate girls of early 2000s rom coms, and the “office siren” aesthetic trend - which will likely swing to “office slob” or something radically different later this year. Perhaps I want to feel like I’m going somewhere or doing something important, adding a hint of feeling to an otherwise mindless routine. Perhaps I just want to dress nice and don’t need to intellectualize it as severely as I do. But as the discomfort creeps in, I can’t help but want to make some sense of it.

I would never wear stilettos - the office isn’t a high-heel kind of vibe - but I do often pair click-clack boots with a nice pair of jeans, a long skirt, or linen trousers. I wear my hair down because it’s one of my favorite features and I tie a sweater around my waist mainly to have something in my lap while I work - a literal security blanket.

Any kind of weather element I encounter gives me grief. Excessive sun causes me to sweat in my blouse. Wind gets my hair stuck in my lip gloss and mascara. Rain causes me to slip in my tractionless boots (I recently ate shit walking up the subway stairs). My bulging work tote, tucked impractically underarm, accidentally smacks people as I squeeze onto the train and receives counter smacks as people exit. When I finally arrive at my desk, holding my hair up in one hand and fanning my neck with the other, I feel the throbbing in my heels. They were silent on the train because of all the other stimulation, but now that I’m seated and cooling down, my feet yelp out at me.

I go to the bathroom, lock a stall, and peel off my boot to have a look. Sure enough, the skin is red, shredded, and threatening to bleed. I think that I should set aside some funds for a new pair of boots, a pair with better arch support that are fitted properly and not snatched from the overstuffed racks of a second-hand store. But this thought will slip to the back of my mind as more important expenses take precedence. I’ll get around to it eventually, I’m sure.

As I stare down at my battered foot, I think about all the times I untied my pointe shoes and the anticipation I held in my throat as I did so. I winced at what I might uncover beneath them. More often than not, I was met with bruises and blisters, but one time, after performing as the Sugar Plum Fairy in The Nutcracker, I took off my shoes and found myself bleeding under my toenail. Draining this blood from my nailbed using a sterilized safety pin later that day would be some of the worst pain I’ve ever experienced.

As I stare down at my heels, I also consider how many women can walk around in uncomfortable shoes without complaining. After all the suffering my feet have undergone in ballet, why can’t I be as strong? I wonder where they’re purchasing their shoes, and if heeled boots or stilettos can really be comfortable. Are they tougher than me or just quieter? Is there a woman in the stall next to me and another in the stall next to her, and perhaps a few more in the buildings next door, all of us staring down at our feet, thinking the same thoughts? 

It occurs to me that I might not be the problem here, it might just be my shoes. It definitely just is the shoes. But I’ll forget that as I slide the boot back on with a grimace, smooth my wince into a smile, and contemplate the other shapes I’ve contorted myself into, gnarling my feet, mind, and other parts into my closest approximation of the right form.

Is it pressure or is it pain? I don’t know.

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