On the comfort of old shoes

It won’t be long now. The dreaded day is looming. I have attempted to avoid it as long as possible, mostly by refusing to consider it at all. And by convincing myself that yes indeed of course they would see out another season, that in fact they are perfectly fine… when looked at from the front. I have persuaded the Boyfriend to endorse this view, mostly by giving him no opportunity to express an alternative. As I cannot see them from behind, I can happily remain content in my self-delusion. But it is inescapable. Soon there will be nothing for it. I shall have to relent and buy a new pair.

They were bought originally almost on a whim from one of my favourite local retailers. I had gone in to buy socks. Stripy ones. I do love a stripe. There, at the back of the store I first saw them, discarded by a previous customer, half falling out of their box. I had not seen the brand before but they were my size; they were well made; they fitted comfortably; the colour was good; the price not too eye watering.

When faced with buying something more expensive than perhaps I would like, I am reminded of my Grandmother. She loved beautiful things and even though money was tight, she would always buy the best quality she could afford. One of my many memories of visiting her house was the wonderful smell of her starched, ironed Irish linen tea towels and pillowcases dazzling in their bluish whiteness. I loved their cool sophistication and soft hand feel, the threads worn smooth with use. I am so lucky to have inherited them from her.

The shoes were the last pair… obviously we were destined for each other. My Grandmother would agree. They came home with me.

I started to wear them. A lot. Every day almost. They have become an integral part of who I am and how I see myself. My Mother commented that even when I’m not wearing them, the shoes somehow are still me; that through some mysterious alchemy they have imbibed my personality; that even though they weren’t made for me, they were made for me; that even when casually discarded on returning home, they manage to embody my attitude. I’m still trying to work out whether that last bit is a compliment.

Now, oh dear, the heels are quite worn away and there are massive holes in the soles. They are not repairable. I wear them out, hoping for dry weather as they let the rain in. All of it. Yet, still I can’t bring myself to discard them.

I’m with Marie Kondo on the whole sparking joy thing, but I think that the things that become old friends and an integral part of our identity, spark something more powerful and longer lasting than joy. They become infused with meaning and steeped in memory. No longer perfect, loved no matter how old and tatty they look to others. But to keep an essence of their younger selves, they need to have been crafted from something with the capacity for ageing, not with the incapacity of obsolescence. Which is why I think that those items that live on with us have themselves been formed from living things: linen, wool, leather, paper, wood. And which is why when I use my Grandmother’s old Irish linen tea towels, she lives on with me.

I’ve been scanning the Internet looking for a replacement pair. But I don’t want an approximation. I want the exact same pair, just without the holes. Of course the makers have upgraded them and tweaked the design slightly, so although similar and, as my Mother would say, a galloping horse wouldn’t be able to tell the difference, I can.

There is nothing for it. I shall continue to hope for dry weather for a while longer.

Stay safe. Stay well.