This Sunday I bought Isabel Marant Sneaker Wedges

And a rotisserie chicken to match.

There’s nothing like the chase of a good shoe.

I’m proud to say that many of my footwear investments have been great deals or “cops” as the streets would say. I’m not sure what it is, but finding the perfect pair truly gives me a rush I’ve never felt before, and getting something coveted at an unbeatable price is even better.

We all hear stories of people finding diamonds in the rough. TikTok shows me people who find Prada kitten heels in their size that appear magically at their rural Goodwill, or influencers who travel to Japan and come back with the rarest bag anyone has ever seen for like $200. I have always felt envious of these people because I have never found anything quite that amazing. I’ve gotten good deals, of course, but never something so exhilarating that you feel like you got away with a crime.

I bought a ticket to Manhattan Vintage a few weeks ago, and planned on skipping before I woke up at the crack of dawn for no reason on Sunday and couldn’t fall back asleep. I figured I already bought the ticket, why not get some steps in and just browse, if anything.

There were a lot of great assortments and kind people. A metallic Loewe hobo, unmarked barn-meets-bomber jacket, and some amazingly sarcastic t-shirts from the 40s and 50s were amongst the group of things I picked out, but never actually purchased. I felt great about going, but down on my luck about finding anything truly worth it.

I’m not kidding when I say I was doing one last glance at the room, when I saw sandy Isabel Marant sneaker wedges, in the color I had saved on eBay, Grailed, and The Real Real, waiting for an affordable miracle, were just sitting there, under a clothing rack, docile, for me to take.

I thought it was too good to be true. They wouldn’t fit, of course. And even if they did, they would be $400 minimum. Every pair I had been looking at second-hand was no less than $350, and the prices at this vintage show weren’t exactly generous.

They slipped on with ease as if I were Cinderella. The woman running the booth had told me that if she had a dollar for every person who tried them on, she would have $70. Everyone was either a 37 or 39, no true 38. Not until me.

The idea of someone else having these shoes made me physically ill. My gatherer instinct turned hunter, and I needed to have these as my prize. With a grimace, I asked, how much? A third of the prices I had been seeing online left her lips, and with the addition of cutting me a $25 discount, I was sold.

I left the Metropolitan Pavilion feeling genuinely high. I called a friend before being off the block, I called my mom, I told everyone I could think that would care. Everyone in my life with taste and class fine enough to respect a sneaker wedge to the highest degree. People who truly understand the mystique and allure of these quintessential indie-sleeze staples. Alexa, play “Sneakernight” by Vanessa-Ann Hudgens.

Sneaker wedges are near and dear to my heart, absent of if Isabel herself is involved in them or not. I remember my mom buying my sister and me pairs of Nike ones when we were in elementary school, right when they really started popping off. My sister and I were certified hypebeasts before hypebeasts existed—between our knee-high and sequined Converse, custom Nike ID neon nightmares with our initials printed on the heel, and our sneaker wedges, we were dripped down before even understanding what that meant. A sneaker wedge was the epitome of chic athlesiure. High tops at dinner? Think again.

I’m devastated to report that I cannot find any photographic evidence of me in a sneaker wedge as a child. To suffice, I did find me in Times Square, circa 2011, sporting one of my latest creations sponsored by free will on Nike.com.

Isabel Marant hit the nail on the head with her rendition, and there’s a reason they’re hot again. My Pinterest algorithm is littered with girls in micro shorts and mini skirts, an off-the-shoulder top, slouchy socks, and the sneaker wedge, hitting the streets and looking epic while doing it. There’s something perverse about breeding a sneaker and a wedge, but also undeniably epic. I usually hate a gimmick, but sometimes, they’re too good for me to turn my nose at.

Then:

Now:

It feels grotesque to call shoes from the 2010s “vintage”. We need a word specifically for that. I’ll get to thinking.

My fall wardrobe feels pretty complete with these. The shoe I was wearing at the time of this life-changing discovery was a pair of Puma Mostro’s I had also gotten recently, and I’m finding them much easier to style than I had originally thought.

My boot reveal is…drumroll please…a pair of Clarks Wallabees! I had seen one too many people wearing them and decided I had to have them. They are giving me pretty terrible blisters, though, so if anyone else has a pair, please advise on how to break them in without having to suffer through blisters that scar my feet. I’ll give you a visual reference once I can bare to wear them.