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.”
My feet grew before the rest of me, then I caught up. So was in 5th grade a 5 foot tall person with size 9 (women's) feet, but over the summer grew 6 inches, then it slowed down and I landed around 5'9" and a size 10 feet.
My coworker though has the same size feet at 5'2", she could be your sister!
Your feet look like you could just walk around on your toes and have an extra joint in your legs.
Hops like a kangaroo, bouncing shops for a size 15