Special Report -- I wore my lucky shoes today.
It's been close to fifteen years since I paid thirty dollars for those black cross trainer/walking shoes at El-Bee Shoe Outlet. Inexpensive, amazingly comfortable, go-with-everything footwear. My back never hurts when I wear them, even when I have to walk on or stand on concrete floors all day.
Those shoes were on my feet for many grueling stage productions. Lots of trade shows and factory visits, too. I wore my lucky shoes to China in 2005 but didn't walk all the way there -- I sat inside an airplane that flew over the North Pole.
My lucky shoes are casual enough to wear with jeans, yet smart-looking enough to complement dress pants. I wore them once with shorts and ankle-high black socks. It was a long day outside in the summer but my feet felt great. I don't think people in Ohio dress like that, though.
The older you get, the less you worry about fashion or playing chicken in your car or finding sex, and the more you worry about your teeth and feet.
Recently, my life became more complicated.
I stepped in dog poop one morning about a month ago. Fortunately it happened in the backyard that time. That's not luck, it's fate. I was late for work and didn't have time to clean my lucky shoes, so I just changed them instead. I had to switch to a brown belt, too, for goodness sake.
The past thirty days have not been my best. It's hard to focus on my work, or even on the possible reasons why I might not be able to focus on my work. Everything I eat tastes like aspirin and chalk. I can't digest food or important information.
So I finally cleaned my lucky shoes this morning. A little soap, some bleach, and a scrub brush. The dog poop didn't even smell that bad anymore, not really. The soles, though worn down smooth, were now as clean as they were the day they first scuffed the El-Bee Shoe Outlet's carpet
My douchebag jackass supervisor gave me a lot of grief at work. I willed him to spontaneously combust but it didn't take. If he had burst into flames I suppose it would have been murder, not spontaneity.
The day dragged like a 1985 Honda Civic's rear brakes. No one at my cubicle farm even mentioned the redeployment of my lucky shoes. I could probably skip wearing pants next week and that would also pass unnoticed -- and hurt my feelings very badly indeed.
On the way home tonight I began to wonder about my life and my feet. If shoes are the window to the heart then doubt is the scabies of the soul. I was beginning to believe that my shoes had lost their luck.
About a mile from my house, the dog that runs along his property's fence line was back, racing me from the stop sign all the way to the next driveway. He kept up with me until I hit third gear and then he ran out of steam as usual.
I haven't seen him in months -- I thought he was dead. My shoes saved him. Lucky dog.
