Comfort shoes

There was a time in my life when the thing I wanted most in the world was a pair of shoes. It was right out of college when I moved in with Patrick – I didn’t have a job, I didn’t have any friends and I didn’t have any money except what my mom had given me to buy groceries. Patrick and I had been together for two years when I followed him down to Florida. I knew it was where I should be. I was sure of it. In fact, I was sure of everything; sure I’d get a job after taking a couple months off for the summer to relax after college, sure I’d make friends in this new, very hot place and sure that I’d find my niche in this new place. Yes, I was sure I had it all figured out.

The first time I saw the shoes was during a quick trip to the mall with Patrick. Not sure what we were there buying considering both of us were broke, but we were there nonetheless. They glowed from the store window – brown cloth Sketchers with patches of different cloth patterns and colors sewn on. They looked like slippers with a rubber sole and an elastic strap across the top to keep them from slipping off. I stared at them, stopping in the middle of mall traffic, Patrick’s hand in mine. He stopped and looked back. He used to hate holding hands in the mall.

“I want these so bad.”

“I know you do. One day you can come to the mall and buy everything you want. We’re just not there yet. We’ll be rich one day. Just be patient.

“But I reeeeaaallllyy want them.”

“I know, baby. It’s hard to want things.”

Head down, deep sigh. I was defeated. The money in my bank account that I’d gotten for graduation had shrunk down to nearly nothing. I couldn’t even afford a pair of shoes.

That marked the official start of my job search. I was done taking time off. I was done enjoying the summer. I wasn’t enjoying it anymore anyway. Because we are living in a material world, and I am a material girl.

Patrick left for another trip at the end of that weekend. I used the last of my money to put gas in my car – just a quarter of a tank – and to buy resume paper and envelopes. My phone rang as I was walking out of Office Depot. Mommy.

“Hi Whits!”

“Hi Mom. How are you?”

“I’m fine. How are you?”

“I’m good,” I lied. “Doing really well.”

“That’s good. How’s Patrick?”

“He left for another trip. He’ll be gone two weeks.”

“Awww, you per thing,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s ok, Mom, I’m fine.”

“Do you need anything? Do you need money?”

I did.

“No. I’m fine.”

“I can put it in your account.”

“It’s ok, Mom, I’ll be fine.”

I wouldn’t be. I ate popcorn and toast for next three days.

“Ok, sweetie, I’m at the barn now, so I’m gonna go. I love you.”

“I love you too, Mom.”

“Bye.”

“By-”

She hung up before I even finished. I missed my mom. I climbed into my car and collapsed onto the steering wheel, crying.

…

I sat on the floor of my living room watching reruns of “Friends” on one of the only two channels we had. The living room was also the dining room, office and storage closet of our 550-square-foot apartment. With my laptop on my lap and the printer just beside me, one by one I addressed the labels for prospective employers, filling each envelope with a resume, cover letter and a link to my janky website that I have since taken down. Side note – I took it down about a year ago when my boss said, “dude, you work online. With websites. And you actually put your name on this piece of crap. Take it down. Immediately. For the love of all things SEO.” I might be exaggerating.

There was something so cathartic about going to the post office and letting the envelopes drop one by one into the bin of outgoing mail the next morning. Signed, sealed, delivered. It was out of my hands now. I’d hire me, I thought.

I took Kya for a long walk, thinking about how despite everything, I really loved my life. I liked living in Florida. I didn’t need friends, or money, or cable TV, or even to see my mom every day. I wanted to live with Patrick more than any of those things. And I wanted those shoes. Kya and I rounded a corner and passed another dog, Elvis, and his owner – a goofy, middle-aged man wearing an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt and a bucket hat. I greeted them, continued on my walk and my train of thought: it’s GOOD to want, I thought. This is the kind of character-building experience that makes me grateful.

And you can imagine what I bought when I got my job and started getting paychecks.

That was almost three years ago, and they’re still one of my favorite pairs. I wore my Sketchers to work today. I like wearing them because it reminds me of a time when I knew what I wanted, and that made it easy even through the hard parts. I wore my Sketchers today because I woke up this morning and didn’t know what my name was. Because I still don’t. Because I get mail addressed to two different names and I don’t know what that means. Because I don’t know which one feels more right and that makes me feel lost. Because Patrick was wrong when he said it was hard to want things. Because wanting is easy. You find something you want, you work for it, you get it. Or sometimes you don’t. But at least there’s a process. When you aren’t sure what you want, well, that’s hard. Yesterday I wanted to be Hoyt. Today I want to be Wilkes-Krier. And who knows what I’ll want to be tomorrow. Wanting things is easy. It’s not knowing what to want that’s hard. Feeling unsure. Being lost. That’s hard. So today I wore my Sketchers, because sometimes it better to just focus on what’s easy.