Shoe Shopping

I was caught unawares by a strange supposition whilst entering a shop yesterday. Suppose I was deemed too old to be in such a place? Suppose the regular clientele were all ten years younger then me and as I entered I was welcomed with what can only be described as a local Cornish pub welcome; without the pitchforks and burning effigy of a human form of course. The irony of this supposition was that by the time I had moved into the shop I had stood in the doorway for so long, moving my lips like a mad horse whisperer, everybody was already looking at me.

Once inside the shop I did indeed discover that despite the owner being ten years older than me the average shopper was fifteen years old at most. I did not shudder with fear rather shook with paranoia. My experiences in shoe shops have not been great. Throughout my life they have left a permanent mark on me because I have a tendency to walk straight up to the women’s section. Like a magpie the shiny and colourful ladies shoes appeal to me a lot more than the bland brown or grey selection for the modern man. Hence, every time I enter a shoe shop I have to check myself and force my feet to walk in the direction of the menswear section.

Once facing the right wall it took me a matter of seconds before I had chosen my desired shoe. I might as well admit it I have a slight fetishism for shoes, particularly unusual looking ones. The shoes that had caught my eye had a pattern resembling blurred car lights, red, yellow and white, being dragged through the city at night. There was a problem. Stood between me and the shoe was a cluster of fifteen year-old boys. Now, I’m not small by any accounts, but despite knowing I could probably ‘have ‘em’ in a fight fear still washed over me. I’ve had nightmares in which a gang of ‘hoodies’ string me up and taunt me over my knowledge of literature, poetry in particular. Strange but true. This did not happen and in all honesty the young boys looked harmless enough so I reached across and plucked my shoe from the shelf.

Now I had to buy them. This proved to be another unwelcome test. Both cashiers were occupied with small skateboarders and I suddenly became aware of my age and awkwardness. Were they sniggering at me? Did they think I was a man-child who had escaped the clutches of his careers for the afternoon? I began to sweat. Finally the young girl cashier was freed and I asked her if she had the shoes in a twelve. I half expected her to laugh and ask me for some I.D, but she didn’t and returned shortly after with a big black box. I slipped one shoe on in a flash and said ‘fine’ without even walking up and down to test them out. I paid, grabbed the bag, and went to leave. However, I had to ruin it by saying “have a good day guys” which was met with a grunt and a smile as fake as my nonchalant stroll out of there.

Outside I recalled when at University I bought a pair of converse from Camden market. I wore them down the pub that very night and was greeted with a series of smiles mainly from the male of the species. My friend noticed this and, laughing, said “Gareth we didn’t say anything, but you do know what that rainbow stands for don’t you?”

Looking back I was naive. But I still liked those shoes even if their usage was limited. I don’t know what it is that reminded me of this. Perhaps the fact that the shoes I had just purchased seem similar in their eye-catching nature and the realisation that I was sure I would wear them no matter what people might think. One of the joys, I suppose, of being a twenty-something is being surer of yourself; knowing what you don’t and do like. Even if the latter means you have to shop for shoes in a teenager’s grotto.