This past weekend, I did something that changed my life, at for the most part, my sense of comfort, my sense of self, style, and possibly even my sense of who I am will never be the same.
I bought two new pairs of boots. The first is a pair of Timberland boots that I got on sale. The second, a pair of Doc Marten's, will be replacing my much worn and much beloved pair of Sketcher's black work boots, which have been my default pair of kicks (well, those and my Chuck Taylor's) since 2005.
It's funny how attached we become to shoes. For the most part, they aren't meant to be anything special. They are to simply protect our feet from the assorted barbs, rocks, discarded gum, and possible bits of animal feces that we may encounter over the course of the day. They are meant to provide extra support, in order to protect our tootsies from the abuse that concrete can inflict on you. And even to provide some extra warmth when it's extra fucking cold outside, and snowfall decides to see just how difficult it can make life on you.
And yet, we love our shoes. Women spend hundreds of dollars on a single pair of what they deem to be hot ass shoes. Men take pride in making their various pairs of shoes shine, and look like new. There are limited edition pairs of Chucks and Vans made with artwork designed by hip hop artists, graffiti artists, and comic book artists. Hell, there are even sexual fetishes when it comes to the types of shoes a person will wear.
Perhaps it is simply that shoes are meant to be an extension of ourselves, one more way in which we can take something relatively simply and make it a symbol of our own individuality. It can be something plain, simply, and functional, or something extravagant and off the wall. It can be extremely sexual or extremely casual and laid back. Shoes, despite their simply intentions, just are one of our ways to show off who we are. They are our constant companions, our simplest friends. They go with us on our adventures to various parts unknown. They choose our outfits, and decide what looks good with what. And, when we need them the most, they allow us to run for cover, run for our lives, or run to the next point of interest, with us laughing all the way.
And my Sketchers did that for me. They were there for me when I went to Albuquerque numerous times. They were there for me as I walked across the stage for my diploma. They were there when my best friend and I explored Chicago. They were there when I went to Vegas for the first time. In almost all of my good times, that pair of simple black workboots were there, supporting me and taking me on my next adventure.
And now, after seven years, it's time to move on. It's time to see what this new pair of boots can take me, what new adventures they'll allow me to experience in my 30's. While I'm not confident that they'll last as long as my Sketchers have, perhaps they'll last me long enough to experience the next phase in my life, in all it's wonderful joy, sadness, heartfelt and heartache, all the gamut of positive and negative emotions that are to be had in this life. We'll see, but they'll definitely be given the chance.
As for the Sketchers? They're still in my closet, beat up, but still more than willing to take me to a few more places. Like the best of old friends, they'll always be there for me, and always be ready to experience that next adventure.
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