So, I’m a pretty average-height guy—5’7”. Not tall, not short, just… there. My feet, however, did not get the memo. They are gigantic. Size 15. Which means I leave footprints that suggest someone much larger (or possibly Bigfoot) passed through, got spooked, and took off running.
People always comment. First, the double-take. Then: “Whoa. Those are… big.” And finally, the classic: “How do you even find shoes?”
Badly. That’s how.
Shoe shopping for me is like searching for an ancient artifact. Store clerks disappear into the back, only to return shaking their heads, as if I’d asked for a unicorn saddle. “We might have one pair in the back…” And what they bring out is always tragic—some orthopedic dad sneaker the size of a small canoe, usually in a shade best described as “beige disappointment.”
For a while, I tried to hide it. I slouched. I crammed my toes into size 13s like a Victorian woman chasing a terrible beauty standard. I even considered custom shoes—until I saw the price and briefly thought maybe barefoot life isn’t so bad.
But now? I’ve embraced it. I don’t tip over easily. I get extra legroom on buses just by existing. And when people ask about my shoe size, I just smile and say, “Great for swimming.”
Tragically, these are normal sized on the inside
Oh please. You’ll be telling me next that policeman’s heads aren’t this shape either.
So Sideshow Bob might have been innocent?
He must have had custom fit.