I like to wear my battered brown running shoes that used to be white, crumpled like a prune, stained with tears, dog pooh, freely flowing urine and blood of my competitors which are mostly old mean and women with leaky prostates. The shoes tell a story of a guy who wears the same old pair of shoes until it's battered and beat to a pulp. Perhaps he's too cheap to buy a decent pair of casual walking shoes, or his neanderthal feet are too wide, flat, and sasquatch to adopt the latest fashion fad of narrow shoes with pointy tips. Many things come to mind when you see a guy wearing a well worn, dirty pair of running shoes in plainclothes. Perhaps the shoes tell the story of an alcoholic?
If it's true, I dress like an alcoholic everywhere, because I wear these worn out old shoes to social meetings, school events, work, and when I'm at home. I got my running shoes from a friend who wore it out three times, each time re-treaded the sole using bits of a car tire that came off his nissan altima. I have no public embarassment about them. In fact, the shoes contribute to my overall macho facade. I wash them in the toilet twice a year. Furthermore, it has a presence of fermented aged parmessan. Just like the fine cheese the shoes get more pungent by the day. When I'm laying in my bed at 12 pm rambling nonsense, still delirious from the hard run I did at 5 am, I imagine myself dining a fine italian cuisine where the all the waiters wear shiny pairs of fine leather shoes.
It's all true, except the parts that aren't.