Ought not to have walked a mile in those shoes
One by one each of my daughters over the past year has pulled me aside to let me know that it was time to face facts. My shoes, specifically my sneakers, are an embarrassment. “Uh, Mom, you’re not going out in public like that,” said No. 1.
No. 2 attempted subtlety last Christmas by buying me new shoes, and it might have worked had she bought my size rather than her own. So guess whose feet looked stylish.
No. 3 said she figured my formerly white Reeboks were OK for yard work but please, please, please hide them when her friends come over.
No. 4 asked how could I tie those shoes with broken strings.
Yet I liked those shoes. I never thought it possible when I was forced to buy them a decade ago after a slight mishap with a pile of burning twigs destroyed what was left of the old ones. These shoes and I have logged thousands of miles. Parting wouldn’t be easy and I wasn’t quite convinced it was needed.
But then I stopped by to try out this new exercise salon where all of its newness made me look rather old and shabby. The woman was instructing me how to use some machine. All I needed to do was swing my legs this way and land my feet on some plate and then push it out. Well that’s when I came eye-to-toe with those shoes. It’s not that they were dirty; I wash them quite often. But I couldn’t defend them any longer. They were not only paint-splattered and grass stained, they were torn.
I was, dare I admit it, embarrassed of myself. Enough so, that on my next trip to Wal-Mart I cruised through the sneaker aisle and thought why not accept the inevitable. So I tossed a pair into the cart that promised right on the label that they would be the most comfortable shoes ever as they are gel lined.
This might be worth the trade, I thought, if my disposition suddenly turned into that of those commercial people who despite adversity walk through life grinning because they’re gelling.
I could hardly wait to get home to try them on. Yes, I know, that was really dumb. I should have tried them on in the store. I didn’t even need to take a step to feel that these things hurt. I called No. 2 and asked her if she were going to the store anytime soon so she could return them. She advised me to not give up; they probably just need broken in.
“No,” I insisted. “They really hurt, and I don’t want to get used to them.”
“What do you know,” the adult child replied. “I was in elementary school the last time you bought new sneakers.”
So I gave it a try. Ten days and twice as many miles later, I couldn’t stand it anymore. Literally, I couldn’t stand. Every molecule in my feet screamed in agony. My toes hurt. My ankles hurt. My heels hurt. Parts I didn’t know I have hurt.
By Wednesday evening I decided I preferred slumming in the old shoes to gelling in the new. I rescued the Reeboks and went for a walk. But the evenings are getting chilly and cold breezes blowing through the vents weren’t too comfy either.
So Thursday afternoon I went to one of those athletic shoe stores that had at least 200 models to choose from. The sales clerk talked me into Nikewalk with airliners. They have this neat insert to lend extra cushion, she said, confiding that they are the store’s most comfortable shoes. This time, I remembered to try them on. She was so right that I told her I’d wear them out.
As I was paying, she asked if I wanted to join the store’s preferred customer club. Once I spend a large sum of money they would give me a coupon.
I politely declined. I didn’t want the young clerk to know that with any luck she’ll be collecting her pension before I’m due for my next pair of sneakers.
Luanne Traud is the Herald-Standard’s editorial page editor. E-mail: ltraud@heraldstandard.com.