Me and My Sneaks Down By The Schoolyard

Earlier this week, for the first time in nearly six years, I bought new sneakers. The newly replaced ones, a pair of Reebok's, shown at left, were perhaps the best ones I'll ever own: brown and oblong like many of the faux-indoor soccer shoes popular among hipsters, yet different than the models typically found on sidewalks. I bought them in Alto Las Condes, an expensive mall in Santiago, Chile, a full size too big because I knew I'd never find them anywhere else. I waited at least two years too long to buy a new pair because I knew I'd never find a comparable pair anywhere else. I never found them anywhere else. I finally caved because a small hole opened on the right shoe's side.

That one's shoes speak any volumes about one's fashion (or other) sensibilities is strange. Shoes should be the most utilitarian part of a wardrobe -- something to shield our feet and make walking comfortable. Unlike other clothing, they're all the way on the ground, never in the field of view like a shirt, pair of pants or haircut are. Yet there are thousands upon thousands of models -- basketball, tennis, high heels, pumps, flats, running, walking, cross-training (huh?), "sport style" (huh?) -- that have, in part, spawned a cottage industry of stereotypes about how much women are obsessed with shoes. None of the women I know well are obsessed with shoes, though I certainly don't treat shoes as purely utilitarian. When selecting a pair, I think about the message I want it to project: attractive but not too attractive; cool but not trying too hard; noticeable but not too noticeable.

Luckily, I like the new pair I bought, the New Balance 574. They give me a bounce in my step, after a long time shuffling with shoes one size too large. Now all I need to contain is my penchant for developing an emotional attachment to my inanimate belongings and blogging about their departures.