I wear shoes. Black, round-toed dress shoes for work. Black or green or black and red Chucks at home. White and blue running shoes for the rare day I exercise. Black boots when I used to work in the backroom of a bookstore, but now they sit by the front door neglected because now I don’t need black boots. I even have a pair of shiny blue soccer cleats I bought a couple years ago when I convinced myself I would play soccer. I will soon buy some brown shoes, because I seem to have acquired more brown clothes, or blue, or brown-hued, and black does not go with brown.

My shoes have purpose, and I wear each enough that they soon wear out and are replaced by better, newer pairs. If I were to hike, which I don’t, then I would go out and buy a pair of hiking boots.

My shoes aren’t red, or expertly crafted, or one of kind. My shoes don’t make me feel sexy, or confident, or unique just for taking home the box. I never stalk my shoes months before in the store.

But these are the shoes I want.