White sneakers are the euro tart of fashion.
This is the best metaphor I have ever thought of. It is such a good metaphor, in fact, that it surpasses metaphorical status. It’s synonymical.
Think about it.
Well, first of all, they are both clean and pure enough to be sung about by Madonna, touched (by sprinkles or perhaps a muddy sidewalk puddle) for the very first time. They are staples within their respective homes; a wardrobe and a frozen yogurt store. Skinny girls seem to love them. They are not for everyone, though. They are plain objects that with proper accessorizing/through bringing in the biggest guns can be the perfect statement. Most importantly, however, they smudge the boundary between classic and basic in a way that drives me mad.
Today, the white sneaker masks itself as a new phenomenon by embodying the Stan Smith (this is where euro tart and white sneakers diverge paths – euro tart knows it is the original, as it is often even referred to as “original,” and never pretends to be reinvented; however, one could argue that the Stan Smith sneaker is technically an “Adidas Original,” thus the white sneaker is labeling itself old school/original as well, which I may not disagree with – so then the paths might not diverge – so I should probably just let myself continue outside of the parenthetical to get to that point, so very sorry for this diverged path in itself, v v sorry).
Let’s turn this into a PBS documentary and trace the original sneaker back to its, um, origins. About three months before the Stan Smith, the white sneaker of choice was the high top Superga, and three months before that it was the low top Superga, and two years before that it was the classic white low top Converse (high top if you were feeling edgy but the low top was always more abundant). Before that, I’d like to say maybe white slip-on Vans? Lace up Vans? But that is completely dependent upon where you grew up, where you went to school, and how readily your style adapted to the cool girls vs. the Fall Out Boy phenomenon or maybe you always had a unique sense of style and skipped all of those phases completely, and so on and so forth.
Wanna know the funny thing? Even if you don’t, I’m going to tell you:
The low top white Superga, which is seemingly the most popular at the moment (the Stan Smiths are the “trendiest” but not the most accessible, leading to the rise of the Great White Superga – it is practically impossible to purchase a pair of Stan Smiths on any retail website until mid- to late-July at the absolute earliest), appears to be the OG euro tart, if that phrasing wasn’t too redundant for you.
And I know this because when I bought my first pair of white Supergas exactly one year ago, my mom went into her closet and came out wearing shoes identical to mine. “1989, baby,” she said with the same evil grin that took over her face when I recently bought a platform pair of Birkenstock-like sandals to match the ones she forced me to wear as a child (hers are also from the 80s) or when she refused to throw away her 80s pair of Uggs because she was loud and proud about being the first one to own a pair. Yes, some could call my mother a trendsetter, but because she hits the trends 10 to 20 years before they’re popular, she is rarely deemed fashionable (by me).
There is another funny thing about the Legacy of the Great White to point out: the difference between the dirty white sneaker and the clean white sneaker. I have some friends who insist upon having a pair of each. When they want the aesthetic of the white sneaker but know they are entering a dangerously dirty environment, they go for the already worn, scuffed, muddied white shoe. When they are going out to dinner, or are trying to look as fleek as fleek shall be, they wear the clean white sneaker.
My once-starchy Supergas finally succumbed to a weekend of day drinking and have entered the dark side. Even after a good run in the laundry, they’re weathered and aged, but in a Meryl Streep sort of way. I wanted to get the Stan Smiths, but they were sold out so I settled on what I perceive to be an equally as cool pair of black suede Originals, which I see as a serious adult-y upgrade from high school’s bar-laced black Supergas.
But who am I kidding? I’ve never really loved euro tart that much anyway.
It was junior year of high school. I was sitting at the desk second farthest to the right in Ms. B’s* chemistry class. I received a text.
It contained the first of many incriminating screenshots I would tangle myself in over subsequent years. The text was from my then- v serious boyfriend; the screenshot was of my Tinder profile. Yes, that is oxymoronic.
“My camp friend sent this screenshot to me,” he typed below the image. “What the hell is this?”
To this day, this is one of the best stories I keep in my back pocket. Hours before the text, Twitter was going off about some new app called “Tinder.” I did not know anything about it — all I saw was the mental red flag that signals rough ocean waters, social media, or a combination of the two — but I was in. Quickly in between classes, I downloaded the app and made myself a profile. And to this day, I will swear on sleepaway camp that I was innocent. All I had done was create an account — I hadn’t even had the time to see what the app actually did.
I didn’t know that Tinder is a socially acceptable Match.com for lonely young people in the same geographical area that also allows you to decide your level of interest in a potential partner on the sole basis of his or her Facebook profile picture. Mine, by the way, was a cute one of me and said boyfriend.
He was mad and called bluff. I, of course, thought the whole fiasco was hysterical. I mean, if I was really looking to use Tinder to get guys at the ripe age of 16, don’t you think I would have at least changed my profile picture to one less couple-y?
But I’m sure you can now understand why my Tinder account has been almost completely untouched by the heat of any fire ever since. With my luck and previous experience, it’ll go up in flames from “0 to 100 real quick,” said Drake. Therefore, I cannot claim to be a Tinder connoisseur, so I will instead ask my perhaps embarrassing, perhaps easily-explanable, perhaps pathetic for a millennial questions to you in case you swipe as well as that fox in Dora the Explorer.
Can someone please tell me what Tinder is actually for? Is it for pursuing relationships, and is it really just a simplified version of Match.com that is easier on our eyes (well, I guess that depends on who comes up on your feed), easier on your brain, and fast enough for our multi-tasking millennial over-diagnosed ADD? Or is it, instead, an aid to those in search of bootay? If you are looking just for the B, or the D, or the AA because women of all sizes are BEAUTIFUL (gotcha there, didn’t I), wouldn’t it be beyond weird to talk to someone on Tinder for half an hour about menial things and meet up with them and just start making out because, c’mon, that’s what you’re both here for in the first place?
Is that how Tinder works and am I just naive like Liesl when she’s 16 going on 17? Because IMHO (in my honest opinion), most people a) are not on Tinder looking to go steady but also b) it would be really effing weird to make out with someone just because you have some mutual friends on Facebook. So what’s the dealio? Haha, dealio.
But then again, we’ve all been with someone just because of mutual friends, but just in real life — at bars, clubs, concerts.
This is what my friend, remotely avid Tinder user, but really just the most openly avid I know, says. In her words, “I think a lot of people joke about it and don’t take it seriously, meanwhile almost everyone is on it with a similar purpose. [They] joke it’s unconventional, but most of us don’t know dating in any other form, or interacting with people in any other element than online.” And then she dropped the holy bomb:
“It’s sort of the norm for our generation, in my opinion.”
I think her opinion might be mine too. When she connects with someone on Tinder, they arrange to hang out. Recently, she went to an expensive restaurant in the city on a first Tinder date. Other times, she just hangs out with her matches. Sometimes it works out, sometimes it doesn’t. Whenever she does connect, though, it sounds completely, totally normal.
When I reactivated my Tinder account at the end of last summer, admittedly bored and lonely in the Hamptons — which is not as romantic as it sounds when you are sharing a bedroom with your two brothers — I matched with every person I swiped right. My ego inflated instantly. More gratifying than Easy Mac. Tinder was fun. It was like Candy Crush.
With each of my matches, I avoided all conversation. I received a “Hey,” and took it as a joke. I was paranoid. No one seemed real. I wasn’t getting out of bed to meet up with some random guy to fool around in the dunes or at the dive around the corner. The best part of the experience was by far the matching; realizing — remembering — you can get back in the game, that there is such a thing as mutual attraction, that there are fish in the area of the Atlantic Ocean that surrounds the easternmost tip of Long Island.
But that was where it stopped. Even a fresh, dense stack of Tinder was, for me, not enough to light my fire.
*Name abbreviated to protect the privacy of this wonderful woman.
Birds do it. Bees do it. And if we’re continuing with that theme, even educated flees do it.
I do it. I eat alone.
Yes, in my head all of the above was sung to that tune.
Unlike falling in love, as Ella Fitzgerald puts it, eating alone does not seem to be something we all do. Eating alone requires a certain confidence; a balanced ego, if you will. Of course, if your ego is so large that you become insecure, which is normal so don’t be too worrisome if this is you, then you would never be seen eating alone. If you are this person, then your ego is dependent on what everyone else thinks of you and your sad salad bar creation with maybe some whole grain bread on the side.
There is also an alternative ego: your ego could be what I would like to think is well-sized, so that you are comfortable enough to eat alone without having to tell a passing friend, “Oh, I’m just reading quietly here, getting some ME time!” and push her away when in truth, you just had no one to sit with when you got to the place of eating, the home of said pathetic salad bar, and you’d rather stick with your story than admit your intentions were not solitude and loneliness from the start.
There is an art to eating alone, of course, no matter what size your ego decides to make itself on any day of the week. One must consider where he or she is eating (consider seating arrangements, location of place, type of eatery/cuisine), what he or she is eating, and what he or she is doing, if anything, while eating.
All rules can fly out the window if you decide to throw them there. My dad has two great stories from his high school years. Both involve vomit, but the more hysterical (and perhaps less disgusting) of the two is when he was driving his ‘Stang (hell yeah daddio) and his inebriated friend was riding shotgun, who proceeded to roll down the passenger window and vomit out onto one of the great highways of central Jersey as my father continued driving at 70 miles per hour.
In this fashion, you can throw the etiquette of eating alone out the window.
To do that, though, you must be truly confident, like the tired, middle aged people on lunch break with not a brain cell to spare for catching up on Instagram or reading the Times. Instead, these people eat alone, like so alone that his or her phone is not in plain sight, and they look out the window and make me think, wow, is this my New York life in ten to twenty years?
These people are the exception, though, because they don’t care about eating alone because they don’t think about eating alone. They just eat.
If you are a college freshman, though, you think and care about eating alone. You think and care about eating alone so much that you have group chats with eight girls in them and your conversations, maybe even your friendships, are built from the foundation of sharing meals, eating at the same times, and not being together but rather just not being alone.
To avoid eating alone at any stage of life, one might get “to-go” or “take out” and eat at his or her desk. Whenever I try to do this, whether it’s to save time or to avoid eating alone, I can never actually work and eat simultaneously. I have discovered that it is a lot more comfortable to eat in a place of eating, where you can chew freely, and if I’m going to be catching up on Instagram for those fifteen or twenty minutes regardless of where I am, I may as well eat alone.
So, I do. I eat alone.
I’m not the best at it, though. I usually spend my time on my phone, or writing emails between bites. Once in a while, however, I have no shame. I get quality, one-on-one time with Dinner or Lunch, who become proper nouns when your friends with real names are not dining with you, and I just look at my food and think about chewing like the French nutritionists tell us to do.
In the city, I can eat alone anywhere at any time and feel okay. In suburbia, however, I cannot do that. This could be for a few reasons: I am still afraid of half of the people I went to high school with and their judgments; the odds of me running into someone I know, even a mother, at an eatery is too high, and our conversation would ruin the point of eating alone; when I am in suburbia I usually spend most of my free time catching up with people, and the best way to do that is over a meal (arguably because it is a good way to avoid eating alone); people are in less of a rush, restaurants are in less of a rush, there are less places for counter service, less people to people-watch; this leads to everything becoming awkward.
I want to say that eating alone is eating alone, so if I can do it in the city I can do it in a small, Jewish suburb of the city. But then I remember that eating alone, like the math from AP Calculus I have very much forgotten, depends on its factors, as previously stated; it is not an independent variable. Math people: did I do that right?
I have no problem eating alone when I’m alone, if that makes sense. I don’t get self-conscious. I’ll face the world solo with my fork and knife — and teaspoon, if I’m feeling dessert — even in peak hours of eating.
Do you? Would you? Did you? Don’t do? Should you? LMK. Asking for a friend.