Today I put on a pair of shoes I bought when I was pregnant with Mary Claire. That was 14 years ago. There they sat, on the sale rack at Hudson’s or Marshall Fields, whatever store it was then. Calling my name. I couldn’t fit my fatter-than-normal pregnant feet into the shoe, but I knew they would fit postpartum. The just had to. They were still kind of expensive, even at half off. But I loved them. So, I bought them anyway, stashed them in my closet and looked forward to (hopefully) wearing them someday.

And wear them I did. These shoes have taken my feet miles. They were the one pair of shoes I’d pack on trips. I’d wear with jeans, dresses, shorts even. Who cared. I loved them. And my feet loved them.

They saw me through years of work and play. I was wearing them the day I ran over my foot with an office chair while hurriedly making last-minute changes to an important speech my boss was making. I’m sure I fractured a bone in my foot. But I just tightened the laces, and hobbled (in absolute pain). I remember my co-worker telling me I was crazy. And I was. The show (and the shoe) must go on. And we did.

Hey old friend

As time went on, the shoes just got better. Laces were replaced. The leather darkened with age.  I oiled them, polished them and loved them. But then, finally, they just got too out of style. So I had to put them away. But I kept them, which is not like me. I’m really good at clearing out my closets and getting rid of the old.

Well, lo and behold. Oxford lace-up shoes are back in the game. So, this morning, when I put on my jeans, I reached for those sweet shoes that I dug out of the attic just a few weeks ago. I put them on.

And I think my feet sang. Or at least I did. (No surprise.)