There is a certain type of person in this life who makes things harder for themselves. They bake rather than buy. They dye their hair despite a poor track record. They face obstacles with a kind of demented optimism: sometimes charming, more often maddening.
Fellow Midults, I am she. And my latest unachievable, relentlessly pursued goal? White trainers. They looked so easy. So low-mai. Lies. They have actualised a kind of vivid self-loathing that now haunts me. I have developed a hunted look, a victim air. It’s a disaster. My hopes? CRUSHED.
I saw them in a magazine, worn by a beautiful teenager. She looked cool, now, fresh. I wanted to look cool, now and fresh. So, one pair of Adidas Superstars and £70 later, boom!
But magazines don’t show thou the dirt, do they? Because, let me tell you, white trainers are a daily lesson in failure. They go from pristine to filthy in seconds. Really they shouldn’t exist outside of JD Sports. They’re not made for real people like me, raggedly running round town, hanging out in places where there is definitely dirt. Like ponies, they require a rigorous grooming routine.
You wipe them before getting on the tube, after getting off. You give them a good clean at the end of the day. You stick them in the washing machine on weekends. Their instant, utterly obvious grubbiness haunts you. It’s a daily frustration. “How do other people manage to co-exist with these things? What is my problem? Am I the problem?”
And yet I don’t give up. Many would tire of the stress, but not me. I will conquer the white trainer the way Posh Spice conquered fashion, and Nigel Farage conquered good sense: dogged persistence. I will prevail. They are trainers for God’s sake. This is a war I must win. Or what shreds of self-respect will I have left?