—
Mary Chapin Carpenter
Today, I wore my red Chuck Taylors for the last time.
I’ve had them since 2005. I love them! They have been great! Yes, they are totally juvenile. And, yes, they were completely falling apart. And, yes, they are totally replaceable.
But today was the end.
Did they rip, tear, or break? Did the sole rip off as I so many times imagined it would? Did that little hole on the inside edge of the left shoe by the ball of my foot rupture finally and make the pair impossible to wear?
No.
No, not at all.
…
Our cat - our 22.5 year old cat - must have peed on them at some point in the not-too-distant past.
Gross, right?
The worst part? I didn’t notice that they smelled like cat piss until about 3 hours after putting them on. My admittedly disgustingly sweaty feet must have rehydrated the cat urine and the smell wafted up to my nose as I sat at the computer.
There I was, composing an email, reading an article, checking my calendar.
When, all of a sudden - what is that smell? That smell, that homeless-person smell?
Oh no.
It’s me.
It’s, well, it’s my feet.
It’s my foot. My right foot.
That smell is coming from my right foot!
…
And now…?
My Chucks are in the trash with my pride and I’ll be going home barefoot.*
*I have my gym shoes with me. They’re Vibram Five Fingers, so it’s like being barefoot.











