When I was young, saddle shoes were all the rage. Everybody loved them … everybody except me. My father bought me a pair without being asked. They were white and black, had deep soles, low heels and had to be tied. I had no choice I wore them. I wore them until I thought of my feet only in terms of those shoes. Should I wear a wide skirt with them or a fitted one? Will they go with my pants? When I realized how important they had become to me … I started to hate them. I ran in them and skipped. I jumped in them and scuffed them along the ground. They looked the same as the day I got them. All of the care I ever remember giving them was a quick wipe with a damp rag. My other shoes got polished or washed but, these seemed to be self maintaining.
Finally, I stopped trying to destroy them and took direct action. I stuck my foot under a fence and hooked the bottom of the fence in my right shoe, pulling with all of my might, I finally tore the side of the shoe. I was so afraid of the consequences that I was actually crying when I told my father that I needed new shoes because the ‘saddle shoes’ were torn up.
He took me to the store that weekend and bought another pair of ‘saddle shoes’ that looked so much like the first pair that it was as if they had never been destroyed.