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.
“Measure your life in pumpkin spice.” That’s how those Rent lyrics go, right?
Over the last few weeks, I’ve consumed: pumpkin spice malt balls, Pumpkin Spice Latte (yes, it’s a proper noun), pumpkin latte (there is a difference), pumpkin croissant, pumpkin croisbun, pumpkin cheesecake milkshake, pumpkin fro-yo, pumpkin pie Clif bar, pumpkin tortilla chips, pumpkin spice yogurt, ‘perfect pumpkin’ Rise breakfast bar, pumpkin muffin, pumpkin cream cheese muffin, pumpkin coffee cake, pumpkin beer, and really what I’ve come down to is that the more you look at the word ‘pumpkin’ the weirder it starts to look. Pump-kin. Pump. Kin.
I have a big Q, though: WTF is pumpkin spice?
On my pumpkin crusade, a friend told me I should eat a raw pumpkin, too.
Hey, basic bitches, that might not be such a bad idea.
And another Q: What is it about pumpkin that portrays images of ‘basic,’ and what roles do we take up when, early October, we order the PSL instead of the half-caff? Are we really coming down from places of higher complexity and more auxiliary? Am I trapped in tight So-Lows from 2008 that in reality haven’t fit me since 2004?
Why has the love of a round, orange winter squash led you to force me to get my Uggs out of the giveaway pile just because I want to order my latte soy, and with whip?
Also, will you judge me if I order the PSL and peace out as opposed to holding up the line for sugar and cream because I’ve gotta stop to ‘gram it?
Pumpkin spice has become so vanilla, but we freak out over it because of things like low supply=high demand and fall is ephemeral, and life is ephemeral, so we must document it and share it and make sure everyone knows WE LOVE PUMPKIN SPICE and we’re ALIVE and living in THE SPECTACULAR NOW. I’m guessing that movie wasn’t actually about pumpkin spice–I tried to watch it once with a boy, which was a doomed plan from the start as boys are too jittery for romanticized high school relationships–but hey, if the title works, steal it to prove a point about the flavors of fall. Okay, actually, don’t steal titles. That’s terrible advice.
In real life, people get shit for ordering vanilla. It’s an insult to be called ‘vanilla.’ Everyone likes vanilla, but no one wants vanilla. And cue the inevitable pang of guilt when your friend, in line behind you at the chic, overpriced downtown ice cream parlor inquires a crude, “Vanilla? You’re getting vanilla?”
Is there a “Pumpkin spice? You’re getting pumpkin spice?” There’s not. There are only completely arbitrary reasons as to why it’s suddenly frowned upon to love fall, such as, well, the fact that suddenly everyone loves fall. Fall is a season, not a Beatle, everyone can love the same season, get over it.
How would I describe pumpkin spice? (Don’t forget, I’m basic and narcissistic–see second paragraph for proof–so I’m just going to assume you want to know.) It’s like a sweet gingerbread, but not sugar-y. It’s like creamy pumpkin pie. Can you describe the flavor of pumpkin spice with the flavor of pumpkin pie? Is that kosher? Is pumpkin kosher?
WTF is PS? IDK. But ILY, PS. ILY.
I’m not going to put myself out there and claim that I’ve always been the biggest Kanye fan, because I haven’t. However, I do not tell a lie when I say that over the past two years, my infatuation has grown like a pregnant Kim Kardashian’s ass.
I didn’t always love fro-yo, either. Back in the day when the only frozen yogurt in close proximity to my house was the Tasti-D-Lite one town over, yogurt was more of an acquaintance than a good lesbian crush. My mom was obsessed with Tasti D, as we penned the nickname, and I tried to be, too. However, my bowels repeatedly fought back, every time, without fail. Tasti D went in one place and out the other in a matter of minutes. Kapish?
With the expanded breadth of fro-yo stores and the release of Watch the Throne, followed by the undefeatable Yeezus, my digestive system and my musical likings both developed tastes for fro-yo and Kanye, respectively. Now it seems, funny as it is, that all the while, Kanye and fro-yo were fondling a nice little love for each other. Alas, a love triangle to top all others.
My friend, a fellow Kanye fan and lactose intolerant like myself, sent me the most appropriate Buzzfeed post of all time, which encompasses my life’s most recent obsessions: Kanye West, and frozen yogurt. You may as well have put Lena Dunham and slutty brownies in a photograph and called it a lifetime. All I can say is that I’m feeling pretty #blessed that I had a kale, banana, and almond butter smoothie today. Otherwise, I’d have a craving that would send me running for
16 Handles the hills right now .
*Note: I was slightly disappointed that Buzzfeed thinks it’s ok to display photos of Kanye & Kim with ice cream in a post falsely titled as a “Love of Fro-Yo”
*Another note: Also, v important, THEY’RE COMING OUT WITH MORE EMOJIS, IF YA HAVEN’T HEARD !!!!!!!!!!!!
Images via Buzzfeed.