I don’t buy things for myself very often. My deal is that when you keep buying–thoughtlessly proceeding into consumerism–you never calm your self enough to discover the truest source of happiness. It’s not about the shoes; it’s never about the shoes.
But I gotta say I think I’m calling it on these ratty pieces of complete shit.
My new Sanuks—which I buy then use to death every year—were dutifully purchased in advance of my busy work summer but this year ended up being killed—also in advance of summer—ahead of their natural death by the new set of teeth we adopted in March. Which was a mercy killing really because Sanuk “upgraded” their soles to pieces of worthless garbage and for the first time ever—over the few days I got to wear them—my feet would be tired at day’s end.
So I detoured back to the holy/-ey Toms you see here but only for a month before realizing that I don’t think I’m ballsy or attractive enough anymore to pull this level of shabbiness off.
And while, yes, it does kind of hurt to acknowledge that, I’m at least excited that soon I’ll probably not have to look down at my toes and realize over and over throughout the day that my most proud accomplishment so far was that I managed to don matching socks.
Epilogue: I don’t even remember what day it was that I finally couldn’t take it anymore and rushed mid-workday into DSW to buy a comfortable pair of Roxy’s. But in an ironic twist, the new Roxy’s also didn’t even end up lasting the summer, and though I’m still kind of wearing them—the holes in the toes were smaller than the holes in the original ratty Toms—and they’re generally less shabby, there is a “calling it” point zooming into the horizon much sooner than I’d like. So I think I’m back to square one but that the hidden nugget in this story arc is how it helps solidify for all of us that threading it’s way through the larger fabric of our society is the vital importance of socks.