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?