On why girls are bitches...
Ellen London
Issue date: 4/29/09 Section: Opinions
I am looking, of course, at your shoes. What brand-style-color-fabric-country-of- origin, sure, but also how you wear them. What you wear them with. Whether I want to ask if they come in my size (an embarrassingly hard-to-find 5-1/2), or quote that Teen Queen of Mean Girls fame and say that they are the "fugliest" shoes I have ever seen. I am looking at your shoes. And I am judging.
I am, of course, my younger self on the first day of Orientation nearly four years ago, when I sashayed my own small shoes (J. Crew flip-flops) into the Pugh Center for registration. Standing nervously (awkward) with my parents and older brother, also a Colby student two years my senior (mortifying), I fell back on this last-resort survival tactic of girldom: go for the shoes. As I scanned the throngs of other, similarly wayward freshmen, my frantic brain grasped at the only two questions I had left to ask: "What's on her feet?", and, "Can we be friends?"
I realize, of course, how superficial this all sounds. And honestly, I couldn't agree more. Over the course of my time at this fine institution, I have seen a lot of feet and a lot of shoes. And I have judged-and been judged-for many lesser, and a few greater, things. Which has led me to believe that us girls are the worst.
Now, guys, I know some of you care about footwear, too. I've seen your throw-back Air Jordans, purchased laboriously on eBay, and everyone knows you can walk into the gym, look at what type of shoes are under the benches, and tell exactly which sports team is in the weight room for a lifting session.
But, I maintain, us girls are the worst. Like a palm reader, we read shoes like a decisive indicator of past, present, and future (not to mention love-life and future job opportunities). The problem (well, there are many, but this is the main one) is that it turns out that footwear is-gasp-actually not a good indication of character. And, like people, it's subject to change at any time.
I have changed my own footwear more often during my time here than many people change their socks (unpleasant, but true). Soccer cleats, espadrilles (Ed. Note: Espa-whats?-KM), tennis shoes, flats, Birkenstocks, heels-these have all found their way beneath my arches at some point. Also on the list are a pair of turquoise platform loafers and some green polka-dotted sneaker-flats, which I am now (shallowly) embarrassed to mention but that nonetheless defined me at one moment in time. At some point, I put those gems on, and thought, "Hey, I look good."
I am, of course, my younger self on the first day of Orientation nearly four years ago, when I sashayed my own small shoes (J. Crew flip-flops) into the Pugh Center for registration. Standing nervously (awkward) with my parents and older brother, also a Colby student two years my senior (mortifying), I fell back on this last-resort survival tactic of girldom: go for the shoes. As I scanned the throngs of other, similarly wayward freshmen, my frantic brain grasped at the only two questions I had left to ask: "What's on her feet?", and, "Can we be friends?"
I realize, of course, how superficial this all sounds. And honestly, I couldn't agree more. Over the course of my time at this fine institution, I have seen a lot of feet and a lot of shoes. And I have judged-and been judged-for many lesser, and a few greater, things. Which has led me to believe that us girls are the worst.
Now, guys, I know some of you care about footwear, too. I've seen your throw-back Air Jordans, purchased laboriously on eBay, and everyone knows you can walk into the gym, look at what type of shoes are under the benches, and tell exactly which sports team is in the weight room for a lifting session.
But, I maintain, us girls are the worst. Like a palm reader, we read shoes like a decisive indicator of past, present, and future (not to mention love-life and future job opportunities). The problem (well, there are many, but this is the main one) is that it turns out that footwear is-gasp-actually not a good indication of character. And, like people, it's subject to change at any time.
I have changed my own footwear more often during my time here than many people change their socks (unpleasant, but true). Soccer cleats, espadrilles (Ed. Note: Espa-whats?-KM), tennis shoes, flats, Birkenstocks, heels-these have all found their way beneath my arches at some point. Also on the list are a pair of turquoise platform loafers and some green polka-dotted sneaker-flats, which I am now (shallowly) embarrassed to mention but that nonetheless defined me at one moment in time. At some point, I put those gems on, and thought, "Hey, I look good."
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