The odd part about staring down the long end of a quarter-century is that I definetly feel old, but not in a bad way. I admit, I find aging more of perplexing experience rather than a depressing situation. It’s as if I’ve suddenly discovered that I have an incrementally more complicated world to deal with and am now a bit disoriented in response. Why? Big Boy Shoes.

The Year of Filling In Big Shoes

I’ve spent the majority of my life having to annually replace my single pair of footware, sneakers, because my feet were just too big and my shoes too dishevelled. Barring gene-therapy, my feet are long past growing like they did in grade-school. My mind, though, is playing catch-up. I am old enough to wear big boy shoes. In fact, I’ve been forced to admit that I need something besides sneakers if I’m to wear big boy clothes¹. So now, when I get dragged into a shoe store, I have to check my instincts at the door and search for another pair of footware besides my running shoes. That’s tough.

I can actually identify my further advancement into adulthood by reflecting on my unexpected need for new shoes. I presently find myself on what feels like an Outward Bound expedition for versatile lace-ups. They’re to satisfy my—heretofore unacknowledged—incapacity to attend “semi-formal” gatherings without someone smelling my well-used runners. Wine and cheese-fests are nerve-racking enough for geek without him also having to worry about any fashion faux pas. I also find myself the owner of shiny new dress shoes that are for what is perhaps the most comprehensive indicator of my adult status: my forthcoming marriage! I’m not apprehensive about any of the new developments that accompany my elderliness, but—and I do hope you’ll excuse the pun—I’m just trying to find my footing with respect to all these new aspects of maturity.

Feeling Like I’ve Soled Myself

Counting my soccer boots, that’s four pairs of adornment explicitly for my feet! The mere thought of such a glut of footware afflicts me with a violently pulsating mind-cramp along with tinges of shame at such unaccustomed lavishness.

A year ago I would have dismissed a shoe rack as an effiminate frippery. Now, I find myself idly coveting the possession of one. At twenty-five, the only hill that I worry about tumbling over is the slippery slope that will lead me to end up with a room of shoes like Mos Def’s character in The Italian Job. At this point in life, maturity seems to be synonymous with the act of abashedly looking for a new pair of cordovan loafers.

¹ Don’t even get me started on how difficult it was for me to wrap my mind around wearing non-denim pants and spread-collar shirts on a consistent basis. Discerning minds can thank Ann and my Dad for this development.