Whilst lacing my 20-ups on Saturday evening, I couldn’t help but smile down upon my faithful friends who have accompanied me on many a journey. As I stretched out my hand to stroke them I realised that personifying one’s shoes is probably a clear sign of psychosis. My husband, in all seriousness, has told me that I love my Docs more than him and he honestly believes that the reason I agreed to immigrated to the UK (from South Africa) is because the selection of Docs is greater here. The poor man. If I was in love with a motocross bike or a skateboard or even a play station, perhaps he would cut me some slack. Um…I think I just admitted that I am in love with my shoes. Wait…backtrack. Yup, I did.
My trusty 8-ups have weathered the last ten years rather well. With tears in my eyes I will admit that they are on their last legs. There is a piece of leather that has come off on the inside of my left doc that mangles my heel every time I put my shoe on, and the sporadic rips and tears are testament to a life well lived. Nonetheless, I will wear them until they die. They have sparkled silver for my matric dance and burned metallic red for my wedding, without launching a single complaint when I removed the spray paint, on both occasions, with methylated spirits – significantly contributing to a shortened lifespan. They have driven all over Johannesburg and walked all over London, and I did not hear a word of disappointment when I replaced them with a younger and more glamorous model.
My 20-ups are magnificent and are just getting the scuffled, trampled look that I like my Docs to have. I wore them to a metal gig on Saturday and we managed to crush a good number of feet and hands (and possibly heads) in a battle to protect our second-row-from-the-front position. They are great for negotiating puddles and dog-crap as well as any annoying child who may cross my path. When I am sad I know that all I need to do is cast a glance at my beautiful shoes and immediately I feel all warm and snugly inside. My precious-es represent all the qualities that I want in a man (not big and black, or big and pink for that matter) but someone who is reliable, fun, funny, sexy and oozing with attitude – all necessary tools to combat all that life chucks my way. I have a sneaking suspicion that many women may relate to the relationship I have with my shoes, as supported by an observation made in the Daily Times “Men and women are different in several respects, but the moment you get on to the subject of shoes, a chasm opens between the two sexes; it’s only for women that shoes become an all-consuming obsession.” As I contemplate my next pair of beauties (a pair of shiny hot-pink 8s) I will extricate myself for a while so that I can peacefully obsess away in doc-heaven.
Dont stress dude! I feel the same way about my car :D
And your pet mole.