“Sneakerhead” by Saaqshi Sharma

 

I am a sneakerhead – a person who is always thinking about sneakers. Sneakerheads spend a great deal of money and time understanding the anatomy and history of sneakers, following sneaker releases, and finding the right sneaker. “Right” is subjective.  For some sneakerheads the right sneaker is a limited edition or vintage shoe they plan on locking away in a vinyl box, never to be touched or worn. For them, being a sneakerhead is about preserving a shoe like a crease-free work of art.

I’m not that kind of sneakerhead. I buy sneakers to wear. I buy sneakers to express myself and to move. I find beauty and ritual in the act of retiring a shoe that has served me. I still hold a special place in my heart for the Nike Frees that took me on my first solo trip to Thailand in 2015. I remember sitting in the Seoul airport during a layover on my way home, seeing the white of my sock poke through the toe of the shoe. I didn’t know then that I would never find another shoe in the same rich shade of purple.

In 2020 I retired my orange knit Adidas Ultraboosts. I thanked them for sacrificing their sole so that I could run further and longer than I’ve ever run in my life (the pandemic will do that to you). In 2021 my dog chewed the aglet of the laces of my black Ultraboosts so it was difficult to rethread them in a way that I liked when I ran. So I repurposed them into cycling shoes because the black matched the dark and menacing motif of my bike and made my neon green socks pop in comparison. I’ve never felt cooler.

Although I’m a sneakerhead that has too many sneakers to count, I was never interested in purchasing a particular shoe that was famous for revolutionising shoe technology.

The Nike Flyease looks like a Transformer robot from the future. It’s a sneaker that you can put on and take off hands-free and without bending over. The heel and sole of the shoe flex upwards, forming a triangle shape, and you use the weight of your foot and leg to push the shoe flat again. The result is a snug and comfortable encapsulation of your foot with enough support that your feet won’t slip out. 

To take the shoe off you simply step on the heel of the shoe with your opposite foot and pull upwards. The shoe was designed for people who need assistance putting on shoes.  It became very popular and demand escalated to the point that those who needed it most didn’t have access to it in the early days of its release, and I didn’t ethically feel right about purchasing the shoes.

But then I got pregnant.

Pregnancy is wildly unpredictable and you don’t know how terrible it will be for you until you go through it. You also have no idea how much it can change your life (outside of the obvious reasons). Before pregnancy I was an independent and active person. By the end of it I couldn’t get off the sofa without help.

I stopped running at 6 weeks pregnant because I was too tired to eat let alone participate in high impact exercise. By 5 months I developed shooting pain into my crotch anytime I put weight onto one leg. It was also at this point I realised that several activities, like walking, required putting weight onto one leg. Because I went from running 7 kilometres 3–4 times a week to struggling to get out of bed, I gained a lot of weight during my pregnancy. By 6 months pregnant I got so big I struggled to dress myself and put on my shoes.

Yes. My beloved shoes.

I quickly lost my will to participate in my daily routine of picking out sneakers to match my outfit – especially because my outfits now consisted of either my grey maternity pants or my black maternity pants and whatever oversized t-shirt was clean. So I wore my Adidas swim slides everywhere instead.

Without socks. Socks were too hard.

My husband bought me a pair of Flyease in an attempt to make me feel better about myself. He asked me what style I wanted and because at this point I was still hopeful and/or delusional that I could stay true to myself, I asked for a pair in pink and green because I would much rather buy a statement shoe over an everyday shoe in white or black. 

To my horror, the size 9 Flyease didn’t fit me and I needed 10s. While I had actively avoided looking at myself in the mirror and because I couldn't easily see my feet anymore, I hadn’t realised that my feet were huge and swollen. And not just my feet, I had developed “cankles” wherein my calves and ankles became one. The size-10 Flyease made it easier to get outside and for a short while I put my slides back in the closet with the rest of my sneakers.

Then it got hotter and I got more pregnant. I developed pitting edema which is a fancy way of saying my body held onto the equivalent of the Pacific Ocean in fluid. When you poked me a little indent of your finger would remain for 30 seconds. I also had a little hill of fluid and skin on the top of my feet now which meant there was no way in hell my elephant feet were getting into anything but slides, so out they came again. My OB looked at my feet with pity when she thought I wasn’t looking. She said she could induce labour earlier to put me out of my misery. (My words, not hers.)

As much as I dreamed of getting my baby out of me and getting my body back, I declined an induction. I gave birth a day before my due date. My lightning crotch went away instantly, but I was still swollen 2 weeks after birth. I tried to wear my Flyease again and while I was able to squeeze into them I felt intense knee pain after a few steps. Sneakers had never betrayed me like this. The inside of the shoes were completely worn out, likely from the change in my gait while pregnant and all the extra weight I was carrying. I tried to put on my pre-pregnancy shoes instead but they didn't fit. A closet full of Ultraboost, NMD, Jordan, Pegasus, and Vapormax in Varsity Red, Maize, Safety Orange, and Orion Blue sat untouched and collecting dust.

I cried.

After 3 months I was cleared to run and was able to get into a pair of Ultraboosts. It was a tight fit but I was desperate to get back on the pavement and start losing weight so I could get back to me. But knee pain stopped me in my tracks again. My physio told me that my arch had dropped during pregnancy and that I needed a new type of shoe to run in. 

She recommended a specialty store. There I learned I needed to wear a wider shoe or to size up to a 10, and stop running in Ultraboosts. The associate brought out two pairs of shoes and I picked the one that felt most comfortable on my feet and seemed to provide the better cushion. They ended up being a size 9 wide.

“What other colours do you have?” I asked, ready to make a purchase.

The associate disappeared into the back and returned shortly after. “It looks like the wides only come in black and white.”

I have never been more offended in my life.

Half-heartedly I accepted my fate and purchased the shoes, mumbling under my breath that black and white was so boring and that real runners wear colourful shoes and New Balance should know better than to discriminate against wide-footed patrons. I decided to wear the shoes out of the store because my feet were killing me, chuckling at the associate who told me this meant I couldn’t return the shoes.

Like I had much choice in the matter.

Today I wear these hideous, clown-sized shoes everywhere I go. If there isn’t ice on the ground, I am wearing these stupid shoes. I run in them, walk my dog in them, and go to the gym in them. I will probably need to retire them in record time and when that day comes I hope they will either come in different colours or I’ll fit into my old shoes so I can retire them the way they deserve. And if I can’t, I will have to learn to be okay with it.

But I’m not giving away my old shoes to a size-9 friend. I’d rather burn them to the ground.

***

Saaqshi Sharma is a writer from Toronto, Ontario. When she’s not writing she enjoys running, reading, and spending time with her husband, daughter, and dog. 

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