I was in Target the other day, and suddenly my feet started to hurt. I couldn’t figure out why… but then I turned and saw the display.
Jelly shoes.
Row after row of them. All brightly colored, sparkly, and ready to invite the next generation into their torturous ways.
And it got me thinking—there are things every adult remembers from their childhood. A toy you loved. A beloved blanket or plush friend. A special vacation. A particularly memorable holiday.
And then there are the things you don’t forget… because of the mark they left on your life. Or your feet.
Your first pain of jelly shoes.
Oops… your first pair.
As a kid, I wore jelly shoes every summer. I would like to say I have fond memories of them, but I don’t.
I knew summer was coming when jellies started popping up in stores. I would get so excited to see them—bright pinks, blues, purples, oranges. They came in every color… reds, neon yellows, fluorescent greens.
They were everything I thought I needed in a summer shoe. And they were sparkly.
What was not to love about them…
In reality?
Everything.
Jelly shoes were terrible!
They were made of PVC plastic. Who looks at plastic pipes and thinks, “Wow, this would make a fine shoe for girls of all ages?”
Probably some maniac who loves clowns!
Summer after summer, I wore jelly shoes and my feet suffered through. I’m pretty sure I got the “If I buy these, you’re going to wear them” speech every time I asked my mum for a pair. She’d usually buy me some jellies.
The Easter Bunny often brought me a pair. And every year, I was thrilled to get them.
And I did wear them. All the time—probably more than I should have.
Were jelly shoes cute? Sure they were. Brightly colored, opaque plastic with sparkles in them. Who can resist sparkles?
And they had a beautiful lattice look to them. Ooooh, so fancy. They were a vision of beauty.
Were they comfortable? Absolutely not. Well… maybe for the first 10 minutes.
There were a ton of issues with jelly shoes. First of all, they were made out of hard plastic. Jellies were both flexible and inflexible at the same time. It was almost magic how a pair of shoes could bend in your hands and feel so rigid on your feet.
The plastic shoes were slippery at first, so you had to be careful running. You didn’t want a jelly shoe to fall off—or worse, take you down with it.
The lattice-like design meant small pebbles and dirt were constantly getting trapped between your foot and the shoe. Every few minutes, you’d have to stop and pick them out. And when you finally took them off, a beautiful pattern would be revealed on your skin.
Who knew dirty feet could look so beautiful?
You would repeat this routine until the jelly shoes caused your feet to overheat. Once that happened, the combination of sweat and dirt created a glue that bonded the shoes to your feet.
Problem solved. No more slipping.
By dinnertime, my feet were screaming in pain, the layer of dirt in the lattice holes was probably two inches thick, and the jellies were cemented on. Mum would take one look at me and tell me there was no way I was coming inside with those shoes on.
A hose, chisel, sledgehammer, and jackhammer would be employed to get the jellies off. I’d head back in, and my mother would tell me to go wash my feet—and that the jellies still weren’t allowed in the house.
It wasn’t the dirt that was the problem. It was the smell.
A horrific smell. Nothing like you’ve ever experienced. A smell that permeated your sinuses, your clothes, your dreams… your soul.
Sometime after dinner, my mum would wash my jellies. And the next morning, they would be ready for another day of dirt, pebbles, running, and skipping.
And by the end of the summer, the jellies would look almost brand new—but my feet were another story. They would be one big blister. And between the blisters were cuts and scrapes from the unforgiving plastic edges.
Jelly shoes were eye-catching, brightly colored, sparkly torture chambers that somehow passed as “shoes.”
My hubby believes there is a giant warehouse somewhere that holds all the jelly shoes. They’re just hanging out there—shelf after shelf of abandoned jellies.
Honestly… this would make sense, since jelly shoes seem to come back into style every 20 years or so.
So it might be a good plan to melt down all the jellies and create the world’s largest jelly shoe.
I can see it… a huge, bright pink jelly shoe. The sun reflecting off it, making it sparkle. The lattice pattern creating cool shadows on the grass.
And not a single jellied foot in sight, trapped in a relentless jelly cage.
The world’s largest jelly shoe. We can admire it and reminisce… without traumatizing another generation of kids’ feet.
Or their parents’ noses.
If jelly shoes left a mark on your feet (and your childhood), tap ⭐ and show this post some love.
If you ever wore jelly shoes and still remember the blisters, the dirt, or the smell, share this with someone who survived them too.
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