Squeak. Step. Squeak. Step. Squeak. Pause. Stop. Pause. Step. Squeak. Humph…
My favorite shoes are squeaking. They’re not subtle: they are noisemakers. Trumpet sounding, angels singing, guns blaring, thunder boomers. SQUEAK! Step. SQUEAK! Step. SQUEAK!
And the squeaking is getting worse. Least I think it is. Feels like everyone notices. I can tell they don’t want me to know that they know but I do. When I walk by I see their eyes shift up towards the ceiling, folks look away, anyplace other than the shoes. “Not looking at your squeaky shoes,” they seem to say, “not noticing you coming from way over there, no, no, no.” Awkward silence. “Does he know his shoes squeak?” They seem to ask rolling their eyes. Hope I am not known around town as the squeaker…
These shoes used to be regular, normal sounding shoes, barely audible, just another part of the ensemble. They quietly pulled their own weight. Then, one day, perhaps the day that I started wearing my “mustard” colored pants from France, the shoes began to act up. SQueak, SQUeak, SQUEak, SQUEAk, SQUEAK! Thought maybe the mustard color was too much fro them, but after testing out the idea I noticed other colors have the same effect. Maddening really.
Tried walking on my toes, heals, sides, flatfooted, different socks, no socks, chinos, jeans, all to no avail. So, now, with no other options, I surrender and admit that I can’t control the squeak. The shoe has won.
So I am left with two choices: Don’t wear them or own the squeak. I choose the later. When you hear me coming, know that it’s OK to glance down at the shoes, admire them, show a little respect, acknowledge the squeak, embrace the cadence, and hum along to the rhythm. Squeak. Step. Squeak. Step. Squeak. Sigh, humph…squeak->
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