I made my first best friend at the age of four. We both had matching Garfield Velcro sneakers and lived in the same giant apartment building.
I remember my feet getting smelly inside my jelly shoes, walking around at all the summer festivals. While my mom and stepdad fought, I’d follow as far behind them as I could.
In junior high I wore my first pair of chucks, dyed my hair black, and took up smoking.
Freshman year of high school I begged for a pair of Doc Martens. When I finally got them, I barely ever wore them. To express my individuality I decided to get a nose ring instead.
When I lost weight after high school and felt like a girl for the first time I bought a chunky pair of heels with ankle straps. I wanted attention and I got it.
I don’t remember what shoes I was wearing when I met Matt but I should have bought myself a sturdy pair of galoshes for the four years of shit I was about to wade through.
My first weekend with Brandon I was barefoot. We didn’t leave my apartment for three days straight and it was magical.
On my wedding day I wore big black vintage style pumps to match the polka dots on my dress. I got blisters from dancing and I didn’t care at all.
I wore slippers to the hospital both times I went into labor. They were a good choice and served me well as I padded around the maternity ward with my tiny babies snuggled to my chest.
As I write this I have flip flops on. I’ve been out in the sun all day, watching my children laugh, play, and sometimes cry. I am happy.