The other day I accompanied my daughter to the mall to buy a pair of sneakers. This may sound like an ordinary errand. Not for me. As devoted as I am to shoes (the subject for another column), I haven’t worn a pair of sneakers since the twelfth grade. The reason is simple: I don’t have “sneaker legs” — those long, skinny appendages that can carry off sneakers (i.e., not make their possessor look like a flat-footed troll). I wear espadrilles to the gym (OK, Curves), and even my bedroom slippers have 2-inch wedges.

In short, the trip to buy sneakers was not for myself but for my teenage daughter. I tagged along for bonding purposes and vicarious pleasure. My daughter is one of those carefree, athletic girls who has sneaker legs. One of the joys of parenthood is to see one’s progeny carry off things you couldn’t.

So there… More…