The right to shoes

Blogging from the Brown Line, at the Kimball station.

I’m dog tired this morning after a very nominal amount of sleep last night. I knew I was in trouble when I put “The Happening” in my DVD player just before midnight. Plants…really?

My groggy state today is comparable to the way I felt last Wednesday.
I hadn’t slept well the night before, but had to fight through it in order to be on time for a work-related seminar downtown.

I was a wreck, fumbling around in the dark, trying to put something presentable on–anything, really. I pulled myself together and bolted out the door, aiming my body towards the Sears Tower.

One hour later, I was at the Palmer House, sitting in the back row of the seminar with some friends. Coffee in hand, I was ready for the day.

A few minutes in, I stretched out in my seat, lifing my feet in the air in the process. A primal, reflexive yelp fell out of my mouth. I was aghast to see that my shoes didn’t match: One black. One brown. I looked ridiculous.

Thoughts and questions raced before me: Had anyone noticed and just not said anything? How brain dead was I to not realize my footwear faux pas? Should I stop at a shoe store on State Street afterward and buy two shoes that matched, or should I just suck it up and be “unmatched shoe guy” for a day?

I was unmatched shoe guy for the day. And it was a long day, at that. I was called “special,” a “moron,” and “original.” One friend asked if it was safe for me to be walking around the big city without a helmet on.

My shoes match today, though I’m not altogether confident that my fatigue hasn’t planted an apparel time bomb elsewhere on my person today.

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