new shoes

I've recently committed to abiding by a relatively radical standard of need; read: I'm not a big shopper anymore. Even by that standard, the keds i've got are a wreck and i'd been looking for some new shoes. But then I remembered my cache. I used to be a sneakerhead but eventually I stopped being a huge asshole and the sneakers gradually found their way out of the house. But I still have these golden, high top nike dunks. They're called Olympics; they were my favorites. I often wore them going out at night freshman year of college, confident that I would conquer "bitches" and notch my belt, feeling very secure in my obscenely appropriate footwear.

Those sneakers are the embodiment of what I'm now opposed to. To begin with, it would be absurd to have only that pair. They're golden and I bought them for $235 from a guy in Florida after searching for them for months. They aren't for the barefoot, for thick and thin, sickness and health. They're for a pantheon of satanic excess.

When I got them in high school I'd check the weather before I put them on the morning. I'd walk staring suspiciously at the sidewalk; the tough thing about worshipping sneakers is feeling like you're defiling them when you, you know, put them on the ground. There's a general horror of wearing them. For starters, they go on feet, which sweat and twist about and carry one's whole unworthy weight. And then there's walking, which involves bending one's feet, which creases them. And though it's hard to walk without bending one's feet it is not impossible; I took up a wide stance, nearly bowlegged, and lifted my feet robotically high with every step. I wouldn't have attracted much more attention wearing them on my hands. 

There were insane minutiae to take care of on such shoes. I mean, there's dog poo in this big dirty world, but also defilement you can't even see if you don't look for it. For example, there are stars about an eighth of an inch in diameter that run along the bottom of the front of nike dunks which are a marker of their condition. If you dig in your toes to run or dance or otherwise move in a not absurdly delicate way you'll rub the stars off straight away, but then that would ruin them. It's like walking on holy nails. 

So I'll start hitting the pavement with them. It's just in time for winter, for snow, and, horror of horrors, salted streets. If you see a guy wearing golden sneakers in a blizzard, please don't let him (me) be misunderstood. It is my principled, clownish crusade.