The beauty of ugly shoes

When I was a teenager in the ‘80s, my fashion sense would probably best be described as Insecure Preppy. I panicked at the thought of being noticed, so I intentionally avoided the Madonna Clubgirl Ragamuffin Look, the Wall of Hair Rocker Chick Look, and the Rich Kid With a Sailboat, Deck Shoes, and Popped Ralph Lauren Collar Look.

Instead I tried to blend in in the best vanilla way I could. I wore a lot of pastel tops, pegged my button-fly Levi 501s, and loved my simple white Keds that I started wearing without laces because I was too rushed to put them back in after running the stinky kicks through the washing machine.

Looking back, I think I achieved my objective well. I dressed like a generic teen from an upper-middle class suburb on the non-San Francisco side of the Golden Gate Bridge. Clean-cut, unremarkable, and blissfully invisible.

But then I went to college. A college in the mountains above a beach town. A college founded in the ‘60s and doing its best to cling to its Summer of Love and Tie Dye heritage. In a flash of blush pink and sea green, I no longer got lost in the crowd.

As much as my budget, part-time pizza gig, and thrift store browsing would allow, I slowly revamped my style to once again hopefully fade into the now bohemian scenery.

Black entered my closet. Lots of it. My hair got a little longer. I stopped wearing make-up. I stopped shaving my legs. I attended a Grateful Dead concert and bought a commemorative tie dye concert tee. I saved up for a pair of ugly brown Peppermint Patty Birkenstocks. I did everything I could do to fashionably embrace my inner-hippie, not realizing for about a year that I didn’t actually have one.

With burgeoning self-awareness, I eventually reintroduced undereye concealer and eyeliner to my morning routine. And a razor, once I realized I could no longer stand the unnerving, ticklish sensation of wind blowing through my leg hair. This was about the same time I coincidentally got a boyfriend for a while. Funny that.

But I kept my Grateful Dead t-shirt (I always met the nicest people when I was wearing it in my hippie college town). And I wore the classic Birkenstocks well into my married life, mostly because they vexed my far-cry-from-hippiedom husband AND because they were actually as comfortable as they were ugly.

Both the t-shirt and the Birkenstocks have traveled life with me through several decades, feeling almost as important as my diploma as expressions of my education and growth in college. I wear the shirt occasionally, mostly because it’s so thin it’s the softest tee I have.

I hadn’t worn the Birkenstocks in years, opting instead for the even uglier orthotic Crocs thanks to plantar fasciitis. But with that impressively distracting foot pain now resolved, I literally dusted off my Birks the other day, thinking somehow they might be fashionable with my silver hair and khaki cargo shorts.

The brown leather straps are still a little fuzzy and in good shape. The iconic cork footbeds look a little dry but are uncracked. The insoles with my footprints worn into them could use a little glue. But for shoes that are 30 years old, they are actually in fantastic shape.

Only problem is, they don’t fit anymore.

Although sliding into my Birkenstocks does indeed feel like gliding into a favorite, custom-fit slipper, it only takes a few steps to realize that many things have changed in the past three decades…my feet among them. The molded arch is now all wrong. The area supporting the ball of my foot hurts. And oddly, the shoes are one European size smaller than what I buy these days. These days when I’m buying fancypants fancy shoes from Europe.

A few laps around the kitchen in my old friends and I had to kick them off. Too much pain. And then a touch of sadness. I had no idea these ugly shoes carried so much significance.

These ugly shoes that I made a lot of pizzas to buy. These ugly shoes that I wore with smug rebellion at a swanky mall in my stylish hometown. These ugly shoes that helped me feel a part of a culture I was trying on for size. These ugly shoes that made my new husband cringe yet smile appreciatively at the goofiness of his young wife, especially when she paired them with neon socks just to get a reaction. These ugly shoes that were always so comfortable even though they never felt quite “me.” These ugly shoes that molded themselves perfectly around the woman I was at the time.

As dedicated as I am to accepting and celebrating with gratitude each season of life I am gifted with, it can still be a bit confusing and arresting when a season passes without my noticing.

Without my permission and without my attention, the story of my ugly Birkenstocks now has an ending. I can no longer wear them to briefly reflect on the past while almost literally walking down Memory Lane of my late adolescence.

Instead the ugly shoes will find a new home in a cedar chest. They will keep sweet company with the silver R2D2 necklace, the decorated graduation gown, the favorite black sweater with the taxi cab buttons, and other cherished artifacts of my life’s seasons.

Rest assured, there was no pedicure when I wore these 30 years ago.