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Walk a Mile
I’ve been thinking a lot about my shoes. Other people’s shoes. Shoes I haven’t bought yet. People who have no shoes.
I’m also the sort of person who consistently wonders at the end of a day of travel that I woke up in New York City! and here I am in Omaha! San Francisco! South Jersey! tonight, where a whole other set of lives I had no idea about are perpetuating themselves, enjoying a new angle on the sun, and so on.
I wear this one particular pair of shoes all the time, because they’re super comfortable, they’re small enough for cold morning feet and they expand with twelve-hours-standing-up feet, they look presentable enough with a suit or jeans, and I can run in them. (Yes, run. in. them.) Longer than life workdays, conferences, important meetings, and memorable days walking around my city and countless others. They were born in Los Angeles, when I realized I needed a grown-up shoe that wasn’t a heel, and they came all around the country with me, through twenty-something states, sixty-something cities and two other countries.
It’s been almost five years with these shoes, just a little longer than my marriage — they incurred their first scratch at the hand of the front door at Kleinfeld on the day I bought my wedding dress. They’ve driven my car and run me down the street in rainstorms and strolled me to the subway in 100 degree heat. They have something like 1200 miles under their belt.
Which is why they’re shot to shit. The edges of both heels are chipped off, there are multiple divots bored into formerly pristine leather soles, they’re drowning in scuffs, and there are three deep scars from the three! separate! occasions! on which I stepped in glass (the last of which poked a tiny hole through not only the sole but the lining and then my skin).
But the crux of this is that I cannot part with them. Nor am I going to commit some blasphemy like resoling, which could ruin everything. The flex-to-firm ratio here is exactly why they’re runnable, why they’re comfortable, why they’re flexible, and why they’re my shoe best friends.
Right now I’m just wondering how many miles we have left together — wondering if we’ll ever start out in New York and finish the day in Portland! or Boston! again.
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Resting His Bones
What?
This gentleman is merely relaxing.
What are you staring at? Is this an odd place to sit down during rush hour?
Guess so.
Poor guy, here he is explaining his perch to a curious (and invasive) pedestrian.
“These boots ain’t too comfortable, I’m just resting my bones, see?”
“Leave it alone, motherfuckers.” And he turns away.
Fortunately, he’s able to regain his relaxed pose.
And the traffic rolls on.
I’ve been there with the painful shoes, too; I feel his pain. I’ve just never chosen to stroll into the middle of Union Square East and kick back.
What I’m saying is, this guy is a trendsetter.
I checked on him twenty minutes later and found him with unwanted company, in the form of an eager Japanese tourist. And a minute after that, he and his curious companion were gone.
“Just can’t get no privacy in the middle of the street anymore.”
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34 Ways to Lace Your Shoes
More than you ever wanted to know about shoelaces, here.
