It's not a hindrance but I do think I have more "drag" than the normal-footed guy. Like I just have more weight at the ends of my legs and surface area so I don't think it helps. I can run fast though. I'm really great at swimming, where my paddle-like hands and feet really come into their own. For q2 - not as much as you'd think. Women are not so forward to make a move on me just because they think my big feet implies something else. I get more women through my natural charm.
Just gonna sneak this in here though because I'm feeling playful
Another photo of me measuring them bro. Pardon the awful hairdo.
Another photo of me measuring them bro. Pardon the awful hairdo.
Fair. Maybe now that I've accepted I really do wear 15EE shoes I should also accept that 5'7" is not average, but short.
Wow that means your feet are a full inch shorter than mine I think. And I'm a 15 EE as well. I faintly remember my size 12 phase back when I think I was 12 myself. Did not appreciate it enough at the time. You don't know how lucky you are!
Luckily I have excellent pressure distribution with these flippers!
You're making me realize I could have a nice alternative income stream in all this...
Bro you haven't even taken me for dinner yet!
My feet are unfortunately hairy and wide which led to my nickname during a large chunk of my teenage years: Hobbit.
I hear you. I often take 15 EE as well. At least you're tall?
I'm 5'7" with size 15 feet. Shoe shopping is a nightmare.
So, I’m a pretty average-height guy—5’7”. Not tall, not short, just… there. My feet, however, did not get the memo. They are gigantic. Size 15. Which means I leave footprints that suggest someone much larger (or possibly Bigfoot) passed through, got spooked, and took off running.
People always comment. First, the double-take. Then: “Whoa. Those are… big.” And finally, the classic: “How do you even find shoes?”
Badly. That’s how.
Shoe shopping for me is like searching for an ancient artifact. Store clerks disappear into the back, only to return shaking their heads, as if I’d asked for a unicorn saddle. “We might have one pair in the back…” And what they bring out is always tragic—some orthopedic dad sneaker the size of a small canoe, usually in a shade best described as “beige disappointment.”
For a while, I tried to hide it. I slouched. I crammed my toes into size 13s like a Victorian woman chasing a terrible beauty standard. I even considered custom shoes—until I saw the price and briefly thought maybe barefoot life isn’t so bad.
But now? I’ve embraced it. I don’t tip over easily. I get extra legroom on buses just by existing. And when people ask about my shoe size, I just smile and say, “Great for swimming.”