SHAMELESS PLUGGING

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Ode to a Shoe and its Mate

I bought you with derision in a Payless Shoe Source in Manhattan New York. I needed some shoes that weren’t boots. I’d never been to New York before; I’d never been anywhere really. I had no idea what kind of shoes would be necessary to navigate the jungle of buildings. You were casual without being sloppy. You were nice without being formal. You were black, but got along well with brown as well. You were that perfect medium. I wore you all over New York.

I wore you all over Farmington Utah as well. I wore you all over Provo, Orem, Lindon, Bountiful, Salt Lake City, and pretty much any Utah city I’ve been to in the past six years. I wore you in Las Vegas. Together, we stomped on naked pictures of “escorts”, and marched through casinos. We gambled for the first time together…of course, it was with someone else’s money so I didn’t feel too bad about it.

You were my shoe of choice for so long. You came with me to London. We rode the tube, got crepes at the South Kensington Crepery, and crossed the Millennium Bridge together. I wore you while I gazed across the Thames. I wore you the first time I saw the Eiffel Tower. That moment, that amazing moment that happens when you’re on the metro and the buildings part and all of a sudden there it is! Breathtaking! Mesmerizing! You were there for that with me. I wore you in Scotland. The cobblestone streets were tough. The ancient roads welcomed us. The magic soaked into our collective souls/soles.

I hated that you were a brand name. American Eagle? For real? I remember the first time I wore you to work in the shop and I accidentally got paint on you. The paint dripped on the brand name tag. I was ironically ok with it. You started to wear out. Your rubber soles began to crack. More paint. The heel of one shoe started to flap a little. Couldn’t wear you in the rain anymore.

I started trying to find a replacement for you. You were very simple in design after all; there should be some kind of knock off, copycat shoe company that made something similar to you. Nothing. And you kept getting worse. It was hard to wear you because I knew I was running you into the ground, but it was impossible to stop wearing you because I had ingrained you into my life. You were my go-to shoe. You made sense.

One day I was painting in the shop, your back heel flapping away. A friend of my commented on how old you were and another friend came to your defense. “I love those shoes. They’re perfect,” he said. You were perfect. But I knew I couldn’t keep you forever.

I wore you to Los Angeles. By this time, you were very nearly dead, but I wanted to add one more major city to your life. The dirt from L.A., Paris, London, Salt Lake City, Las Vegas, Edinburgh, Stratford, and Provo all mingled together. You were on the edge.

I was shopping in a thrift store one day and found a pair exactly like you in brand, size, and age only they were a muted brown. I almost bought them. However, when I tried them on I found their insoles were in worse shape than your outer soles. What shoes. What amazingly wonderful shoes that can be worn to bits and still be preferred over all the hundreds of shoes I own and have owned.

I can’t keep you anymore. You’ve fallen totally apart. I can’t wear you. I can’t justify your place in my closet. I haven’t found a replacement for you, and truly, doubt I ever will. But I needed to do something to remember you; to keep you important for me. If at least, for a little while.

Good-bye shoes. You were well worth the twenty dollars I spent on you and initially resented. Thank you for proving me wrong. Thank you for guarding my feet in all my travels in life. Godspeed shoes. Guard the feet of angels and walk the roads of heaven and if you could, would you mind throwing another pair my way?

For Realsies?

So. I am a grown up. No matter how hard it is for me to accept the fact, I am no longer in my twenties. Grown up. And as a grown up, I feel a certain sense of responsibility to uphold the title in all its glory. I help children that are lost in shopping marts. I pick up litter when it's within reach and doesn't impede my destination. I also own and drive my very own, fully paid off, Toyota Tacoma. Grown up. As the owner and operator of such a grown up vehicle, I also feel it is my grown up responsibility to drive conscientiously. I also feel it is my grown up right to be pissed at those grown ups that don't recognize their own responsibility. Like the idiot that full on cut in front of me not only after he had made eye contact, but he had enough time after the eye contact to pause, look the other direction, and still make the decision to force me to slam on my brakes. Not tap, slam. Full stop in the middle of the street. And for such an action, what grown up would deny you the right to blare your grown up horn? So I did. Little did I remember, Toyota made a fatal flaw in designing the 1995 Toyota Tacoma, that flaw being the intimidating power of the horn. Or should I say the lack thereof. The sound of my horn resembles that of a toy car horn, or clown horn, or the occasional squeaky toy in the dog food section of the grocery store. Intimidated? Hardly. Laughable. Anyone that I honk at does not question their own stupidity in driving, but rather, asks themselves "for real? Was that a car horn? Cute." If anything, it encourages bad behavior.

So what do I do? Voluntarily give up my grown up right to honk? Turn the other cheek? Buy a new, guttural, man-voice horn? I think not. For now, I've decided to honk at random with little rhyme or reason and maybe, just maybe, people will be so busy laughing they'll have to stop and think twice about cutting me off. Preemptive strike, if you will....