Solemates

(Originally posted 3.17.08)

They were the most awesome shoes ever. Clear vinyl spectators with a black patent toe and heel with chunky rubber soles that glowed in the dark. In all of my 11 years, I had never witnessed the coolness that emanated from the display wall of Journeys on that fateful day. I had to have them, and the spark of wonder that glinted from my eyes was enough to melt the heart of one of my parents (I can’t remember which one) and sway him/her to buy them for me.

I wore them everyday. They were transparent, and hence went with everything. I showcased a multitude of brightly colored and wildly patterned socks underneath them as I tromped clumsily down the 6th Grade halls. And when it was dark, you could always find me by the light of my neon green soles. It was like a 24 hour rave on my foot.

Though I didn’t realize it immediately, this was the first of many times that I mocked establishment with my fashion choices. I loved it when eyebrows raised and noses wrinkled at the absurdity of my shoes. I was making a statement without saying a word. Oh yes, these glorious little instigators of change laced across my feet brought me a great sense of pride and confidence in my uniqueness.

There were some minor drawbacks, however. From a functional standpoint, we tend to underestimate the importance of opaque shoes. You see, my clear shoes, as amazing as they were, did little to camouflage foot perspiration. In fact, they highlighted it. The smallest amount of it would fog up the sides of my shoes and settle into little drops of condensation around their grommets. Yes, I was making a statement, alright. Unfortunately, it was one that said: "Hey everybody, my feet are sweaty!" Nevertheless, it seemed a small price to pay for the overwhelming amount of joy and purpose that wearing them brought me.

One day, several months later, the flimsy vinyl on the side of my left shoe ripped. I don’t remember how exactly, but I have a few compelling conspiracy theories. My mom, the sensible shoe wearer that she is, jumped on this tragic opportunity to persuade me to throw them away. I stood my ground for as long as possible, but her "reasonable logic" finally got the best of me, and I said goodbye to my dear old friends forever.

I never gave them a proper goodbye, so I thought I might take a moment to speak to them directly:

Dear Coolest Shoes Ever,

We had a great run guys, and it ended too soon. If I could take back my actions, believe me I would. Sometimes, I imagine you, buried in some unforgiving landfill, fogged up from decomposing garbage and glowing into the murky darkness like the light of a wayward ship lost at sea, and I’ll be honest, it makes me die a little inside. You guys were just too great for this world. So, for what it is worth, I am truly sorry, and I’ll never forget the good times…

…For the other four people still reading this, my description of my shoes is nowhere near as good as the real thing. You really have to see them to understand the magnitude of their awesomeness. I have spent a considerable chunk of time googling every possible combination including the words "vinyl" "shoe" and "day-glo" (which incidentally took me to a section of the internet highway that only strippers and clowns inhabit), but I have been unable to find a picture anywhere. Yet another reason I should have hung on to them (Thanks a lot mom!). If anybody out there knows about these shoes and can produce a photo, or has a picture of me from the sixth grade (Hint: I’ll be the girl sporting the snazzy mushroom haircut and red rimmed glasses!), please send it this way so I can give visual documentation. On a final note, be good to your shoes! You never know when they might be unjustly ripped away from you.

RD