Often I'm wondering where you got those cool Vans
I had a Grand Revelation on the subway Saturday night. Craig went to work, so I hopped on and rode into the city to tool around and take chances by staring at people without the mirrored sunglasses I recently broke. Staring is tough on the subway; people are instantly aware. I wish I could explain, no, really, I'm just wondering who you are and, by extension, who I am, but that isn't likeable or even true at times. Often I'm wondering if that giant boil on your ear is painful and if you're planning to let your girlfriend or boyfriend squeeze it when you get home tonight. Often I'm wondering who you're looking at with that crazy lazy eye. Often I'm wondering if you'd lick the subway floor should I offer you $50.
So sometimes I stick to staring at people's shoes, especially when I'm alone. Which is what I was doing when I had the GR. It might not seem like such a GR to you, but it was to me at the time. I thought to myself, every one of these people went to a store and picked out these shoes. They set aside time. They paid money they earned by working or by being born or by Jesus being born. They spent a few minutes, at least, if they didn't spend hours or even weeks, picking out their shoes. Not because people need shoes, although that's truly true in a place like the city, but because shoes are supposed to be a reflection of who we are or who we want to be at particular times or with particular people. But they're pieces of colored or textured material, sewn together only semi-uniquely, so some entrepreneur could try making a fortune based on the fact that all of us need shoes and all of us need identity and all of us want to impress someone.
In that moment, I respected old people and their regulation orthopedics. One day I'll be old. And that's when I'll let go of nonsense.
So sometimes I stick to staring at people's shoes, especially when I'm alone. Which is what I was doing when I had the GR. It might not seem like such a GR to you, but it was to me at the time. I thought to myself, every one of these people went to a store and picked out these shoes. They set aside time. They paid money they earned by working or by being born or by Jesus being born. They spent a few minutes, at least, if they didn't spend hours or even weeks, picking out their shoes. Not because people need shoes, although that's truly true in a place like the city, but because shoes are supposed to be a reflection of who we are or who we want to be at particular times or with particular people. But they're pieces of colored or textured material, sewn together only semi-uniquely, so some entrepreneur could try making a fortune based on the fact that all of us need shoes and all of us need identity and all of us want to impress someone.
In that moment, I respected old people and their regulation orthopedics. One day I'll be old. And that's when I'll let go of nonsense.
4 Comments:
Subway epiphanies are the best.
Just think what the subway people would have thought about you had you bought those gum-colored moccasins from Marti&Liz. You could have blown so many minds!
Were they gum-colored? I thought they were lime. I never gave those shoes another thought, which means they weren't meant to be. Thanks for your guidance.
I'm thinking Extra gum-colored. The so-lime-it-almost-yellow gum color.
However, we're talking about my memory here, and we know how that bitch lies.
As for my "guidance," well, I've always enjoyed pissing on people's dreams, big or small.
Sigh. Insert an apostraphe-s where it belongs up there, please.
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