Ode to My Shoes
I’ll be honest with you; I have a tendency to get attached to personal belongings, very attached. My Docs, affectionately dubbed “Hobo Shoes” by many of my friends, are the perfect example of this.
When I was in the 9th grade at Roseville Area Middle School, my mom bought me a pair of shoes subject to one condition. It went something like this, “If I buy you these ridiculously overpriced Doc Martin’s, you have to promise me that you’ll wear them a lot.” Well, almost 9 years later, I continue to wear my beloved Docs on an almost daily basis. Condition fulfilled.
The shoes have been through a lot, to say the least. They’ve made it through 8 Minnesota winters. They’ve been worn with black socks and khaki shorts. They’ve doubled as weight lighting shoes when the gym wouldn’t let me in without close-toed shoes. They’ve even taken a trip around the world with me on St. Olaf’s Global Semester. On that trip, the Docs graced the terrain of Switzerland, France, Turkey, Egypt, India, Thailand, Hong Kong, China, South Korea, and even North Korea*.
To make a long 9-year story short, I love my discolored, torn, wrinkled Docs. The heels have blown out; the tread have worn to a flat surface (which make these optimal equipment for my annual Slide-Down-My-Parents’-Driveway-On-Your-Feet tournament); the rubber soles have begun to tear away from the wrinkled leather; the laces have been replaced 3 times; one of my Dr. Scholl’s gel inserts have fallen out the blown out heel; and the list goes on and on.
Why am I sharing the story of my Docs with you? To be honest, I’m not entirely sure. I guess I feel like I owe a tribute to my Docs. After all, they have been with me for over one-third of my lifetime.
* I have to qualify the Docs’ North Korean visitation. I was at the Demilitarized Zone (DMZ) between North and South Korea and was able to step across the border into North Korea for a few minutes. And no, I didn’t meet Kim Jong-Il.
