Ever get that strange, protective feeling when buying a new pair of shoes. Careful to walk around the block, not to scratch the pair, slow to break them in. Optimistic that they’ll fit for the long haul, but not completely sure. It’s the brief time, when you notice everywhere you’re walking is either clean or dirty, and each step is pensive. Is there enough support there? Too tight? Too loose? Is that how it felt when I got my last pair? Eventually though, the pair gets its first scuff. Immediate frustration sets in as you try to correct the misstep: wiping the mark down, vowing to never let that happen again. But alas, we all know it will, it’s walking, it’s inevitable. The only thing that saves the shoe owner is that the newness wears off, the shoes become just another pair of shoes.
The cycle of new fading into the norm happens for most material goods (i.e. car purchases), and even non-material things (i.e. getting a new job wears off after a while). There’s an inherent honeymoon phase for most of life’s experiences, but what makes them last? The answer is similar to what a lot of research surrounding the feeling of happiness suggests: There are short-term, dopamine joys, but the more sustainable, serotonin experiences are more meaningful. Even for shoes?
So after buying a new pair of shoes, I decided to compare them against my old pair of shoes. My old pair, with its worn-down sole, told a story. It presented insights about my actual gait, details of how I traverse stairs, the terrains I typically encounter, and the activities I take part in. It was a reflection of me and my true walk, a pair of trust. A pair that I could only hope these new shoes could fill. The new shoes were not mine, at least, not yet.
 |
| My feet are wide, plus I don't skateboard. |
 |
| Pronounced pigeon walk on my left. |
 |
| The shoe curves up, it's not flat. |
 |
| Slight pigeon walk on my right. |
 |
| Gum, but also a lot of concentration around the balls of my feet. |
