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  • Writer's pictureMark Meier

The Shoes

I hate shoes - even shopping for them is something I’d rather not do.

The issue I have is I’ve never found a pair that fits and that I like. As an example, about six years ago I bought a pair of shoes that seemed to fit right, looked durable, and was pretty much everything I wanted in a shoe.

They were horrible. Though they “fit,” there was a little lift in the heel that gave me shin splints from even walking for more than ten minutes. Running on a treadmill? Forget about it. They were probably the worst shoes I’ve ever bought.

Being a person who hates waste, I couldn’t simply toss them out. They became my “work and yard” shoes. And they were indestructible. I hit them with the weed whacker a half-dozen times and it barely showed. I used them year-round and they never wore out. To the “day job” five days every week, year after year, after year.

When I lost that job and worked something a bit more involved (that’s when I hit ’em with the weed whip), they kept going strong. The sole hung in there, too. They never wore out. It’s like the shoes were mocking me. “You can’t get rid of me. I’ll be with you FOR. EV. ER.”

Eventually I retired them to yard work only. That means only when shoveling snow or mowing, things like that. The replacement shoes lasted six months. The laminated layers in the shoe came apart. You could feel the parts peeling apart when walking. The next pair, similar issue. They fell apart in six months.

The hated shoes, still going strong. “For. Ev. Er!”

About eight months ago I bought a pair of shoes that seems to be a good balance. I can feel the laminates separating a bit, but eight months for a pair of shoes that I kinda like is pretty impressive.

The hated, indestructible shoes finally went into the trash bin Saturday morning. Not because they didn’t have mileage in them yet. A couple of the bits of trim were coming off the bottom, and I didn’t feel like cutting those bits off just to get another three years of wear out of ‘em. I hated those shoes, and didn’t want them around.

Into the bin they go. And Wednesday, when the refuse-hauler comes around, I will not lament them.

Now, if only they could have made ‘em fit.

But no, I’m not going out to rescue them.

RIP, you piece of garbage.

May you rot in the landfill For. Ev. Er.

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