Walk a Mile in My Chucks

These worn out black Cons of mine have trekked many miles with me. Among my collection, they’re my oldest pair, my favorite pair. They accompany every outfit I own from dresses to jeans and, no matter how torn and sodden and battered they get, I will keep them. It’s the bleach spots from scrubbing down my grandparents’ shower, the doodling I drew on the soles during theology class, the dirt and grime from countless travels over sidewalks and yards and parking lots and fields and amusement parks and airports and beaches from Columbus to Maui…it’s these things that make them my favorite.


This is not to say that I don’t adore all of my other Chucks – the flame pair that my nephews think make me run faster, the pink pair I wore ‘walking in Memphis’ with Jen, the red pair Rich got me for Christmas, the blue camo pair I bought at Marshalls just because they were my size...they all hold a special place in my heart and always will.

I picture myself as an old woman, gray hair piled on top of my head and Chucks on my feet. It’s not vanity or an attempt to cling to my youth that fans my flames for Chucks. It’s that I feel most like me, like the woman I most enjoy being – quirky, a little eccentric, joyful – when my Cons are snug on my feet. There’s power in those shoes, surely imagined, but potent nonetheless. I think every woman has a material object she feels that way about, be it a necklace, dress, shirt, ring, high heels, jeans, husband’s shirt…some thing that projects their inward self to the world, that pulls confidence or comfort or sensuality from them as soon as they put it on. My Chucks are that some thing for me and, thus, my ode to Chucks.