is waif
FILA CHUNKY SNEAKER




if you are chunky why would you wear a chunky sneaker?
if you are thin why would you wear a chunky sneaker?
if you are spotted, striped, tall, short, silky, dark, light,
or somewhere in between
still i ask
why
would
you
wear
a
chunky
sneaker?
i don’t body shame – i sneaker shame.
do you fila me?
--
i believe the road was paved for the chunky sneaker a few winters ago when i began to notice otherwise seemingly sensible people exposing their ankles in subarctic temps.
pourquoi?, i wondered.
sometimes there were snazzy socks to behold.
this i could almost comprehend.
for who doesn’t love a snazzy sock?
but more often than not bare ankles were de rigueur.
furless and freezing.
--
i once knew a woman who never wore socks while wearing boots.
we are no longer friends.
--
if the ankle is a part of the body that is to be considered sexy – what does this say about society?
--
i believe the ankle is très sexy, however, the exposure of bare skin in cold weather seems to me rather ridiculous. the first winter i judged.
the second winter i observed. the third winter i began to wonder: “should i too expose my ankles? should i purchase a pair of snazzy socks?”
“let’s be chiaro chiaro i think it goes without saying, dancers are the very worst dressed among artists— except for say the occasional high soprano. zing! no shade to all my dancer and high soprano friends – just telling la verità like it is.”
in fact, i am already in possession of many snazzy socks. i am currently wearing a pair with smiling whales on them. i have socks with stripes and polka dots and a cute pair with mournful dogs and even – these are prized pairs we’re talking – some that hail from japan, with delicate stitching and that appear almost stocking like. these socks which i have in pale pink, lavender and three kinds of black, i wear for state occasions only.
paradoxically i like to wear businessmen socks when i sport my “city slippers,” which plebeians might recognize as “adidas shower sandals.” business socks off set any attempt at appearing jock-like and i quite like this. i should admit that i have yet to graduate to the ur-business sock—black with gold toe of mid-calf length, a sock that one of my style icons, that is my father, is known to only ever wear, but i digress.
the late stages of capitalism aside, i was shocked—shocked!—late last december when an otherwise very stylish friend of mine sported chunky fila sneakers.
she is European and therefore chic. at the time she was seated on a rug casually telling me about a dance class she attends regularly. there were candles in our midst and in the dancer’s way she began to stretch languorously. i envied her hamstrings and unfussy hips. such ease; casual grace.
surely the file sneakers she’d slipped off before entering my pied-à-terre were just a strange european misfire.
a dancer’s faux pas to be forgiven
(for, let’s be chiaro chiaro i think it goes without saying, dancers are the very worst dressed among artists—except for say the occasional high soprano. zing! no shade to all my dancer and high soprano friends – just telling la verità like it is.)
and so I forgave my european dancer friend her funny filas— overlooking them as a charming continental quirk.
but i soon began to see otherwise fashionable people sporting these chunky sneaks. and seeing this trend led me down a dark path.
soon i wondered:
is it ever ok to wear sketchers?
--
no.
the answer is no.
it is NEVER ok to wear sketchers.
unless it’s for a costume in a play.
and even then i would worry a bit about the actor who allowed this to happen.
but i must admit.
one day i was feeling weak. and found myself with time to kill at a DSW. dark arts were in my making, for idle feet are the devil’s playground. i spied a pair of sketchers and ambled over to the tower of shoe boxes. i made sure no one was looking, tried on the chausseurs and IMMEDIATELY put them back in the box and replaced the box in its precarious tower.
furtive glances all the while.
why did i want to try on the sketcher?
because i wanted to know. just for a moment. what it would feel like to be a
person wearing a sketcher. was it sketchy? yes. am i glad i did it? no, not really. i can barely admit it now. hence my nom de sugar plume. my heart’s a racin’. you see, trying on a sketcher for me is akin to another person’s cocaine or another person’s cinq-à-sept, the common practice en france when one tells one’s beloved “desolee, i am working til sept” when in fact one is leaving the office à cinq and having a love affair in between until sept!
fidelity over filas.
for me a sketcher is an affair of the foot.
and that’s plenty pour moi.
--
allora!
--
who are these people that wear filas? are these shoes comfortable? and what about the knock off filas? what does it say to be a person who wears the knock off fila?
--
the other day i was in a CVS. it had been a least three blue moons since my last XXX vitamin water and i was pleased as punch my boisson cost me a mere 49 cents, for i had two dollars worth of CVS spending bucks, long receipts be blessed! a loud Australian, wearing a very cute shirt dress, exited the CVS in front of me. she sported prada tevas and i felt like her footwear on a saturday exiting a CVS under the highline was the truest representation of the insanity of our current climate.
later that same day an aggro white man shouted to his girlfriend, “THE AMAZON IS BURNING!” they were walking ahead of me. he turned and yelled at her again, as though she had single handedly lit a match in the state of para or the state of mato grosso and repeated, “THE AMAZON IS BURNING!” i couldn’t tell if it was an antic. i don’t think it was, for the lady did not laugh, nor did they slow their pace which, in my experience, often happens in conjunction with an antic.
--
i marched on ‘neath the highline trailing prada tevas and her merry Aussie beau. they spoke of profit margins. were we all heading to the same place?
i arrived at The Shed—arch wink to late stage capitalism—the latest architectural addition to the hudson river and cultural bastion, which sits next to Hudson yards that weird mall, to see a free dance event. i proudly showed a worker the ticket i had reserved.
“i don’t know why they gave out tickets to this!” he said, laughing—with me?—at me?—“this is event is free, why are there tickets?!?”
i smiled in return, a mix of forlorn overwhelm.
--
i had clicked “two” for my free tickets hoping i would rustle someone up. a friend? or perhaps form a companionship in time for the show. i had failed to do so. my thorny thoughts my only company. this kippy flies solo a lot these days.
--
as a proud ticket holder i decided to procure a seat—there was no way i would stand for a free dance concert, especially not after i’d gone to the trouble of reserving tix—plus, i had already put in many steps to get to The Shed. when i approached a bench some curators in intimidating eyewear told me defensively: “we’re sitting down because we WORK here.” i almost replied: “thank you for making me feel so welcome,” but demurred, and chose to sit on a reserved sign on the bench in front of them. a white dad and his small son were in front of me.
two older asian ladies next to them. the performers were former dancers of the subways and had amazing street dancing moves. i saw vans. i saw timberlands. adidas shell toe sneaks.
not a sketcher or fila in sight.
i was wearing a comfortable walking shoe by SAS – a brand known for its older clientele, age wise and soul wise. i’d paired this with i miei jogger pants and a white tunic. i thought i might take a selfie with my sister earlier in the day but it didn’t come together, alas. we were enjoying real life too much to remember to capture it. and then in a flash she was in a lyft on the way to laguardia leaving kippy alone once again.
--
at one point the emcee asked us to vote during a dance-off. whenever we were asked to cheer for one dancer over the other the older asian ladies turned around and smiled at me. we formed a voting bloc. the white dad and his son voted differently than us, but it was all in the name of dance. and even though i was friendless, this kippy had a jolly good time!
for a moment i was one with the crowd— even the curators behind me who had switched to French when their elegant friend arrived, red jeans, her hair in braids, sunglasses. ca va bien, et toi?? we were all together. marveling with the dancers. cheering loudly. laughing at the emcee’s delightful turns of phrase.
--
the return of fila as a brand to the culture at large is great. it’s the chunky sneakers that make me nervous. what of irony? are we going to start wearing umbro shorts earnestly???
--
on a hot summer night recently i put on a pair of pearl studded loafers, some red and teal adidas shorts my friend cast off to me in 1999, and a pale pink everlane mock turtle neck shirt. it seemed like a perfectly reasonable ensemble to go and drink a glass of rosé in. especially with a friend of a friend who does business in the business world. i felt maximum artist. a rare and fleeting feeling. a feeling i cherish.
plus the ensemble was gender-question- mark, a sartorial style i am ever more keen to dabble in these giorni! i like to keep people guessing. for example, this summer i’ve oft sported a five dollar navy blue hat with the words “longboat key, florida” writ cross the top. my parents purchased it for me in an act of love some months ago so it both feels like a shmata on my head but also vaguely republican (florida) and therefore très subversive. it’s not as weaponized as a red hat (i wouldn’t dare!) but a hat that invites critical engagement nonetheless. (by the by: let it be noted and known that my pronouns have always been and shall always be “kippy”!!! keeping it on brand and gender-question-mark since before the hills were made.)
--
in the shabby hotel lobby where i pen this missive two men are talking about annual annuities over a dell computer. they wear grey shirts. the tea drinker’s grey is a tee shirt. the decaf coffee drinker, who is thinking about ordering lunch at 11:27AM, wears a grey polo.
“here you start with $10,000 and a premium. the annual income will be $17,000. and it's the same type of math.” this is stated loudly.
the one thinking about lunch who is being advised talks softly. what will he order?
i’ve always preferred people with softer voices.
as for me. i am wearing a pair of $12 pants my mother purchased for me at a marshall’s also in florida. (i got a lot of loot on that trip). these wide-legged numbers have been my summer uniform. breezy like a skirt but covering enough leg fur that my waxing schedule has been lax at best, and negligent at worst. the pants are also a bit gender-katherine-hepburn-question-mark. 💯
a woman in her 50s marches through the lobby speaking Chinese on her cell phone. what’s she saying? i can’t make out her footwear but it’s definitely a flat and not a white fila chunky sneaker.
and don't even get me started on the bazooka pale pink chunky sneaks. that’s a whole other essay. or, in this case, side bar.
i left the hotel lobby in search of daily life, but when i returned to my pied-à-terre i couldn’t locate my sunglasses. i felt bereft, how i feel when i lose anything because my life has meaning.
these were the same shades i had purchased in florida avec i miei! a hat trick of wearables: wide-legged thai pants, gas station old feller navy blue hat, and basic sunglasses. of course i didn’t want them lost to the ages! i wanted them on my face, under my navy blue shmata hat with my breezy pants. my summer uniform.
i shyly telephoned the hotel lobby and asked if anyone had found a pair of brown sunglasses. the receptionist asked for the brand. i said, “umm i believe steve madden? they aren’t fancy or anything!” i immediately felt class shame. steve madden is fancy for someone. plus, i had downplayed the importance of my sunglasses. i had tried to seem cool to the hotel receptionist, why? anything i purchase alongside i miei is special to me because i love and cherish my parents so very much. why do i try to be cool when i am so deeply not?
the receptionist told me the sunglasses were there.
i cried, “hurrah!!! thank you so very much! i really like those sunglasses!” abandoning all attempts at cool.
i returned to the hotel lobby the following day en route to dinner avec un ami.
i collected my sunglasses and returned them to their rightful place. on my head. even though the day was overcast and it was dusk. and for a moment all felt right with the world.
pale pink side bar:
bazooka pale pink is a color i adore. i wish i could find it more often these giorni than this dreary “dusty rose” that seems to have overtaken shopping shelves and online sites. even “millennial pink” has a touch of prison warden in it! something sinister and institutional—dare i say conformista—lurks in the depths of millennial pink. bazooka pink, on the other hand, is a cheerful shade. one i oft wore in the mid and late 90s (that’s 1890s to you!) when it was an easier hue to find.
but bazooka pink on a chunky fila sneaker feels ostentatious. like a thong above the jeans or a plumber’s crack. a misplaced false eyelash. just too much. troppo. or as we say in my madre linqua “essagerato.” exaggerated. theatre professionals might know this to mean “a hat on a hat.” and while i have been known to wear two hats at once on certain occasions, i don’t see how a bazooka pink fila is ever correct. ps i hope ps i hope someone reads this article and buys me a pair: [wink!!!]