Learning how to tie your own shoelaces is a youthful rite of passage; as is getting those shoes stolen by the local bully, who also knows how to tie laces, but misuses his knowledge to knot other people's shoes together and hook them over an unreachable telegraph wire, where they hang like a pair of mournful bats. Jason Munger, a contemporary of mine, thought he could out-wit our bully by wearing only slip-on loafers. Alas, this ruse did not deter the bully who, unable to knot them together, simply filled their insides with stones and tossed them in a nearby pond.
These events took place at a pre-teen age when my parents still picked-out my shoes for me, usually round-toed and turd brown in color. Plain boring shoes that unctuous salesmen described as "sensible." I begged and pleaded for those trendy black models that all the cool kids wore but to no avail. In fact, my mother often reminded me I was lucky to have any shoes at all. Back in her day, apparently, children shuffled to school and back again in bare feet across sharp rocks and burning hot gravel. And observe the Kenyan marathon runner, my father might add, does he complain about running twenty-six miles without the benefit of expensive sneakers? He does not and wins his race anyway.
The purchase of so-called sensible shoes, however, was anything but a sensible process. Correct shoe size was determined by enclosing the foot in a slide-rule contraption. It looked like a mini, medieval iron-maiden that exclusively tortured below the ankle. Once your toes were crushed and your heel severely bruised, the gloomy salesman mumbled some alpha-numeric gibberish and trudged to the backroom to find the desired shoe. Then he returned with bad news: The smart black shoes you wanted weren't in stock in your size but this ugly Frankenstein pair in turd brown that would fit correctly were available. They are fine, my parents would say, we'll take those.
Walking around with my feet stuck in what appeared to be two shapeless loaves of whole wheat bread was no fun. Even the local bully sympathized and took no action against me. Consequently I was forced to surreptitiously throw my own shoes over the telegraph wire. How else was I going to get rid of them with a readymade excuse? But I failed in this attempt at auto-persecution five or six times before finally admitting defeat. Being a bully is harder than it looks, I thought, and must require hours of practice; also consoling myself that at least I needn't walk home in my long-suffering socks, which at that point were in a condition of decrepitude only slightly less embarrassing than my hideously unfashionable footwear.
The other drawback with sensible shoes, besides their gross unsightliness, is undesirable longevity. A good pair of sensible shoes are built to last and will serve their unfortunate owner for many years, which meant I was stuck with the whole wheat horrors until my feet grew another size. First world problems, you say. Nevertheless, I would have gladly paraded around town with a flapping sole or worn-down heel if the uppers of my shoes were shiny black with attractive stitching, and would've felt like the cock of the walk while doing so.
Of course, learning that appearances can be deceptive, that there is equal value in the plain as in the glamorous, is another youthful rite of passage. But realizing later that nobody in their right mind actually believes sanctimonious nonsense about beauty being only skin deep is yet another. People may claim that looks don't count but they are surely lying. At a recent wedding, I openly mocked a fellow guest for the faux pas of wearing tan moccasins with a dark blue suit. It was without doubt a harsh verdict on a trivial sartorial misdemeanor, yet it was also unequivocally correct. I guess the shoe bully is still with us, and he has become me.
