Wednesday, January 21, 2015

the secret lives of shoes

Shoes tell stories about people, accompanying the wearer on adventures, then sitting idly by under a bed or in a closet.  As a boy, I wore athletic shoes, because I went about as a boy.  When I grew into young adulthood, I wore biker boots-something solid, substantial, seeming to help hold me to the earth.  I needed the stability.  Maybe I needed something to toughen my image, too(just between you and me).  And on my favorite style, there was a leather-held shackle.  That said something about the young man with the easy smile, crazy eyes, equally insane laugh, nebulous personality, that bundle of raw nerves.  That or I enjoyed getting tied-up.  Delicious pain, delicious waiting, one-way ticket Mister Grey.  The roaches check in but they don't check out.  No.  As a young working man, I wore cheap work boots, mid-top and as an automotive technician I upgraded to steel toes, still mid-top, relatively lightweight, for ease of movement.  I frequently wore the tread off of them, making the non-slip, carbunkled surface smooth.  Now, as a man approaching middle age, I wear five dollar sneakers.  What happened to me?  Do I not care anymore?  Do I sympathize with the Chinese workers that made my shoes?  When I wear my permapress pants and cheap shoes, am I being some kind of communist?  Or cloaking myself as some kind of bargain-bin everyman.  Maybe I'm no longer here to impress anyone.  *And I'm not above begging that Sharpton and company don't ruin the oscars.  Did you catch my tone there?  Please, don't, I said.

No comments:

Post a Comment