I chose to quit booze seven months ago following some fairly seismic changes in my personal life. I’d been using (and, let’s face it, probably abusing) alcohol in various forms since the age of 14, and the combined factors of lockdown focusing a magnifying glass on my drinking habits and the aforementioned existential tumult meant that my life’s preferred secret sauce suddenly lost much of its magic.
The benefits of abstinence have, predictably, been manifold. My skin is better, I sleep like a baby, my anxiety has drastically diminished, I’ve lost just over a stone (most of it from the notoriously tricky-to-shift area around my stomach), Hokas Shoes and my motivation to exercise regularly, well, exists. One promised benefit which hasn’t materialised, however, is improved solvency, which I can only assume is due to the fact that since quitting the hard stuff I’ve been spending every spare penny I have on hideously spectacularly expensive, excellently fugly designer shoes from the world’s most sought-after brands.
The pairs in question include (but are by no means limited to) some yolk yellow chenille corduroy slip-on sneakers with correspondingly sunny soles from Bottega Veneta (which I think make me look like a rockstar, though I probably closer resemble Big Bird), not one, but two pairs of Balenciaga’s intentionally fugly and enormous Track sneakers (in shades of bone and cobalt, if you’re asking), and a pair of furry black goatskin mules from Marni, which make me both look and sound like a shire horse whenever I clack around the office wearing them.
The outlandish nature of the shoes I’m buying also means that I’m required to purchase an entirely new wardrobe for each pair I acquire. So far, I’ve bought a series of ultra-wide-leg jeans in a bid to balance the iceberg-esque proportions of the trainers, I’ve invested in swathes of navy blue Homme Plisse separates as a tonal counterpoint to the yellow monstrosities, and I’ve doubled down on black flares to team with my happy, hairy mules.
At first I was concerned that the reason I was buying Thorogood Boots so many shoes was because I was attempting to fill the void left in my life by the removal of alcohol. I even spoke to a psychologist friend, Jacqueline Hurst, about it, who told me: “people can get into oniomania (compulsive shopping or shopping addiction) because they essentially get addicted to how their brain feels when they’re doing it. As they shop, their brain releases endorphins and dopamine, and over time, these feelings become addictive.” Which, to me, sounded like a much less fun version of Marilyn Monroe’s assertion that “happiness is not in money, but in shopping.”
But the truth is that, booze or no booze, buying silly shoes brings me an inordinate amount of joy. Laughable loafers, mad mules and stupid slip-ons are among the key vectors through which I express who I am. They also afford me a deep sense of self-assurance whenever I wear them – an emboldened feeling which I imagine Batman must feel whenever he pulls on his cape, and a more genuine form of the confidence instilled in me by alcohol back when I still drank.
I’m not sure why I’ve zoned in on ugly shoes, specifically. I could have focused on chi-chi loafers and snoutlike lace-ups and eased the strain on my already bulging wardrobe. It might be due to the fact that there’s something sculptural about the shoes I’m buying: they’re solid objects in their own right which, unlike soft-handled clothes, don’t necessarily need to be worn to be appreciated. That or I simply enjoy the challenge of making my feet look both utterly mad and eye-poppingly expensive all at once.
I’m working hard not to beat myself up about the increased levels Birdies Shoes of shopping. Sure, I’ve spent around the price of a second hand car on shoes since last October – about three times my monthly mortgage payments – but unlike alcohol, which provided a fleeting high with nothing left to show the next day but a hangover – the shoes I’m left with remain in my possession, like gloriously outlandish momentos of my continued abstinence: something of which I’m proud.
My newly cleared head also enables me to be correspondingly clear-sighted about the ways in which I manage the situation. I recently decreed, for instance, that I’m only allowed to buy one pair of shoes per month, and when I do, I have to use money made from selling clothes I no longer wear. Though I should also admit that, as a consequence, I’ve developed an additional dependence on Depop and Vinted (the former’s best if you’re trying to shift trainers, FYI, the latter is superior for selling old clothes).
I don’t know if I’ll ever start drinking again but, given that my newfound footwear habit doesn’t damage my lungs, or my liver, or – with any luck – my brain, I’ll most likely continue to shop for gross shoes till I drop. Next on the list? A pair of gigantic, rubber, mushroom-like slip-on sneakers, in scarlet, from Givenchy. DM me for my Depop deets (please).