Doc Martens are out
I wouldn’t wear them. I wouldn’t wear Birkenstocks. I wouldn’t wear shoulder pads, high rise jeans. Neither would you. We glide, fluidly, through styles and trends and fads. We adjust.
But we sport the ugliness of our formative years so loudly. Like we are carrying a water-damaged boombox blaring the macarena. It hurts. Everyone wants us to stop, but we can’t.
We can’t stop dealing the diagnoses and receiving them from others. We can’t stop being read like textbooks.
Defensive? Abused. Doesn’t play well with others? Only child. Older boyfriend? Daddy issues. Asymmetrical face? Crack baby.
We want to say: “go where I go and be where I’ve been.” Each of us would love to remove those chunky, outdated gel-sole shoes and toss them someone else’s way. See if someone else can handle the molded arch of your tired body.
We can choose to remove unfashionable footwear, but it’s a lot harder to kick off our souls.