The Practicality of Impractical Shoes

Confession: When I feel shitty, I shop.

This past summer, I battled mono for a few months. Chronically fatigued, I found that I rarely had the energy to do things I’d previously found enjoyable and relaxing, like taking my sister to our favorite department store in New York City.

After being quarantined for weeks, I rallied one day and left my house to make the pilgrimage from 88th St. to Bloomingdale’s on 59th. I arrived at the department store in one piece, but the travel left me feeling depleted. My mood began to spiral. Could it be that after weeks of being sick, I still wasn’t better? Would I ever again be able to take a walk or hold a conversation without feeling worn out? Why me? Melodrama engulfed my thoughts like an oversized sweater—specifically, the kind that envelops you in comforting softness and is conducive to mourning lost love or simply moping. I’d been wearing something like that earlier.

By Irene Limb

The point of this shopping trip had been to shed my sloppy sweater and the self-pity that I always seemed to wear with it. Clearly, that wasn’t happening. Imagine my surprise, then, when I absentmindedly slipped my foot into a sky-high wedged sandal—clunky, funky, and covered in what looked like couch upholstery—and instantly felt uplifted. Emotionally, that is.

I know what you’re thinking: I’m superficial. And I am, a little.

But I am claiming ownership, once and for all, of my right to feel high—on life—in a pair of heels. And I’m insisting that I need not be embarrassed about it.

Because guess what? You’re superficial too.

Whether or not you’re willing to admit it, your mood is just as malleable as mine, and likewise incredibly responsive to seemingly trivial cosmetic changes. Because all it takes for your psychology to be profoundly altered by a sweet pair of kicks is for you to put ‘em on.

After centuries of believing that the mind and body were separate entities à la Descartes, scientists everywhere began uncovering compelling evidence to the contrary. At Northwestern University, Dr. Adam Galinsky recently determined that people adopt certain mental capacities depending on the connotations associated with their clothes.

In a study conducted in Dr. Galinsky’s lab, researchers directed two groups of participants to don identical white coats. Group One was told that these coats belonged to a doctor, while Group Two believed that the coats belonged to an artist. Remarkably, the group who believed that their coats belonged to doctors showed a drastic improvement in their ability to pay attention, while the other group showed no such psychological change.

This idea that our bodily circumstances affect our mind is called “embodied cognition,” and it’s a relatively new theory to the world of science. This principle is exactly what governs my shoe department scenario. Though I didn’t know it at the time, there is a reason why I felt less slovenly when I buckled those awesome party shoes to my feet. Simply because I assumed that their wearer would be fun-loving, confident, and energetic—the opposite of sickly, lethargic me—I subconsciously allowed those shoes to influence my feelings and positively alter my psyche.

I bet you’ve experienced this too. Think about how your mood transforms as you get ready for a party. It’s hard to feel bored or blasé once you’ve donned a sharp tuxedo or put the finishing touches on a sick smoky eye.

Further experiments by Professor Karen Pine at the University of Hertfordshire produced fascinating implications about the relationship between dressing and mental health. It turns out that certain patterns of dress strongly correlate with emotional states. For example, women tend to wear baggy, formless clothing when they feel depressed in order to draw less attention to themselves. The same study suggested that a simple outfit change might make it more likely for these women to feel like they can proactively address mental health issues and ultimately overcome crushing sadness.

This is remarkable. Sure, changing out of sweatpants won’t cure serious illness. However, this is empowering knowledge. Taking the time to fashion an outfit that makes me feel confident seems less trivial when I know that, in so doing, I’m reinforcing my self-confidence. And in light of Dr. Galinsky’s white lab coat studies, I’m apt to believe that I could engineer my outfit to induce any number of moods based on the memories I associate with my different articles of clothing.

Clothing, like all material goods, has limited intrinsic power. When I slide my foot into a show-stopping shoe, the rest of the world doesn’t shudder or shift on its axis.

But I, the wearer, do. I teeter and totter for a second—these wedges are extremely high, mind you—and then I right myself, and find that I’m equipped to reach for goals that had before seemed just beyond my reach.

Six inches beyond my reach, to be exact.

Lily K. Calcagnini, ’18, a Crimson editorial writer, lives in Dunster House. Her column appears on alternate Fridays.