Can He Be Nostalgic About His Shoes?

Sometimes you have to listen to Nashville Skyline. This is one of those times.
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Today, I bought new sandals. Those who know me, will tell you that I love my sandals. They are keens, and for a while were the most expensive piece of clothing that I owned. I did not love them immediately. In fact it took some cajoling on the part of Claire and the staff at Ann Arbor's Bivouac to get me to part with my money. Even on the walk home, I wasn't sure it had been money well spent.

Over the next few days, this feeling only intensified. The right foot in particular was a constant reminder of my apparent "mistake." That is to say, the large, painful blister on the back of my ankle was constant reminder of etc., etc.

But there came a breaking point (or "breaking-in point" if you will) when I declared them to the be the greatest sandals -- nay -- the greatest things to happen to my feet. Never had I such arch support, such a firm feeling of security and freedom, from shoes.

My love for these sandals was unfettered. Who cared that they were about a size too large? I certainly didn't. I wore them all through the summer, and well into the fall. They taught me the true meaning of "Jacket and Sandal Weather," which is now my favorite kind of weather. I even wore them to Iceland, a land not known for its sandal wearing.

But all that love came at a cost. Too soon, the treads had worn off, and the soles began to thin out. When one of the draw strings broke while I navigated a Best Buy, I knew it was time to start thinking of getting a new pair.

Today was that day, and I took pause in the god-awful Pentagon City mall to take stock of how far I have come in these shoes. I have no way of knowing how many miles I've covered in them; it seems fitting that years are the only way to measure my relationship to these shoes.

The largest divot goes all the way through the rubber to the cork footbed; gently curving, showing the wear of time, and not a freak crack in the sole. It's the first time I've worn through a pair of shoes, and I am proud that it was these.

I didn't mourn them, because a new adventure was about to begin. I walked straight up to the sales clerk, and held out my foot. "Hello. I'd like another pair of these."
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