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World Wide Width: Musings of a Fat-Footed 12-Year-Old
I’ve been blessed with what my mother refers to as “pork chop feet.”
It’s neither a sizable trust fund, an antique jewelry box, nor a collection of priceless, first-edition hardcover novels that I have inherited from both of my parents. No, what has been passed down to me is the inconvenient genetic anomaly that is…wide feet.
Below is a picture of a Brannock device, a tool with which I was quite familiar every time my mother took me to the mall to buy new shoes for the school year. Placing my foot on the cold metal, a sweaty middle-aged salesman would usually comment on the width of my foot and that oh my, I’ve grown another inch!
“You don’t say, Captain Obvious,” I wanted to reply. “How about you do your job, go back to the stock room, and fetch me some shoes before you go home to your loveless marriage?”
Having wide feet was, and still is, a pain in the butt. (Or is it heel?) It was especially frustrating back then because I was relegated to certain brands of sneakers or — as a private school brat — ugly brown loafers or black lace-ups. I could never wear the popular brands my peers were wearing. No Nike, no…
