After seven years, it's time to say goodbye to my solemates.
The problem is, I can't find another pair of shoes to fill their shoes.
OK, not more bad puns. I promise.
As a junior in high school, I purchased a pair of $100 shoes that had a backbone. I needed them to be tight enough so that I could run in them if needed, but loose enough so that I could flick them off as soon as I sat down at a desk.
They have been everything a person could ask for in a pair of shoes. They have traveled across the country and across the Atlantic Ocean. They've taken me to every interview that has ever meant anything to me. I've worn them on days when I felt like hiding in my closet and watching terribly depressing movies. They made me stand straighter. I truly believed that if I wore any other pair of shoes, my chances at landing a new job or internship would be shot. I received a few terrifying church callings wearing Joan & David. They seemed like no-nonsense names enough for me.These shoes exuded characteristics I wanted in myself—understated yet powerful, elegant yet feisty, playful yet contemplative.
It took seven years of stomping, tripping and light jogging, to cause a tear. I wore them so often that the simple bending movements of my foot wore them down enough to rip the skin. The balls of my feet rubbed the gold paint until it splintered and, in some places, disappeared.
Rainy days give me hope. So, on one of the gloomiest days I've ever experienced in Utah, I headed out into the gray to find a replacement pair. It wasn't good. Everything was cheap looking or too expensive or too boring or too eccentric or too high or too low or too narrow or looked like it had shuffled out of my great-grandmother's closet.
I compared every pair of shoes to Joan & David. In a sea of heels, I thought about my poor friends that were waiting by the door for me, ready to give a day at the office another go. I simply gave up after an hour or two, and came home with a new outfit instead. Oops.
Joan, David and I have been through so much together. I've sweat profusely in them while under a tight deadline. Instead of smelling like gym socks, they dried up just in time for the next day, completely erasing the sweat assault from the previous. I've assumed some of my most effective power stances while wearing these shoes. I have successfully run a mile in them through a busy city while trying to find a kind citizen with a phone charger. I also entered the temple to receive my endowment while wearing them.How can I possibly dispose of them? I'm scouring the Internet for the exact same pair with no luck. Perhaps the shoe to the right is close enough?
No. No, no, no. It's just no the same. Dalton's reply to this entire charade I'm pulling is, "Oh look, you are sentimental after all!" Well, this is just a little different than the concert tickets and silly knick-knacks we've collected.
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