Ask My Shoe

I do not own many working pairs of shoes. For something that is so essential to all my sojourns out of the house,  the ‘shoey’ aspect of my life has been largely neglected. I have a good working pair of brown loafers, and another black pair of shoes. I did not see the need to get more shoes. That means that every time I got money, other needs usually got the first priority.

However, this has begun to change. I’m growing up, and I have come to realize that for a man, the type of shoe that you walk in matters. A lot. And not just for the ladies. A weak shoe will make you visit your cobbler more than is required for maintaining healthy professional relationships.

It’s always embarrassing for me each time I pass a beautiful (beauty is, naturally, subject to the discretion of the observer) girl. I notice their eyes looking down, inspecting my shoes, which, due to some freaky quirk of nature, are almost always covered with a fine layer of thick, brown dust. This happens five minutes after leaving home. It doesn’t matter if I’m in a car or not. I have even started carrying a brush in my bag when I leave the house for a long day in the city, or when I have to spend a whole day in class.

I’m thinking of saving up some money to buy two, high quality pairs of shoes. The ones that will make their (you know who) eyes pop out in surprise. Hopefully, I’ll get shoes that are allergic to dust, but that might be pushing it a little bit too far.

I love the shoes I’m using though. We’ve been through so much together. In good times and in bad. When I forgot to buy brown shoe polish, when I walked past that hot girl in town, when I only had ten shillings in my pocket that day, when I had to spend ten terrifying minutes in that horrible loo … When I had more money in my pocket than I knew what to do with, when I was very confident and made a group of classmates ( girls of course, wouldn’t have mentioned it otherwise) laugh. When I was walking with the guys and building castles in the air, pointing at classy, European cars on the road and choosing which one we’d drive by the age of forty. My shoes have seen it all. And they probably know me better than most people do.

I have become attached to my cheap, brown loafers.Truth be told, I could go out tomorrow and buy a decent pair. But I love my broken in and worn out shoes. And I want them to witness my rise from the bottom to the top. I want them to feel more comfortable on the mats of a personal car, not on the hot, dusty pavements and rough roads of the city. And certainly not on the dirty floors of public service vehicles.


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