I have always developed an absurdly strong connection to inanimate objects. When I was about five, my mom and dad took me with them to the Buick dealership, where we traded in her old, tan boat for a nice, fancy, new blue Somerset. (Yes, it had the vinyl top. It was a sweet car.) I cried bloody murder, until the nice lady at the dealership promised I could come and visit the old car any time I wanted. This barely placated me, but I calmed down enough to get in the new car (Traitor!) and be driven reluctantly home.
So you guys know I love shoes. I have a few favorites that I wear into the ground. Almost five years ago now, on a fateful day in early June, 2003, I was shopping in the King of Prussia mall when I wandered into the Vans store. I found the most perfect, classic Vans in the most amazing pink, yellow, and orange tweed. They became my go to shoes, and got me through another year in DC, three years in Boston, and a Kalamazoo fall. These were my favorite shoes; whenever I looked down and saw them on my feet, they made me absurdly happy.
These shoes. They were well loved.
I broke them out for their inaugural spring wear last week, and felt with horror what I knew signaled the end: the distinctive feeling of water seeping in from the bottom of my shoe. I had worn them into the ground.
They’re pretty, they’re plaid, and they’ve got spunk. Look at that shiny new vinyl; I think the lack of cracking will make my heels happy.
Okay, forgive this post and its randomness. I just finished a paper and I’m feeling rather giddy. Thanks for all of the well-wishes! I’ll be back to my pseudo-regular posting next week.