With suppressed hassle, I untied my black-dominated New Balance sneakers. As I pried one of the shoes off my right foot with a little twist of the heel, I naturally hoped that no obscure odor would release itself from the pockets of air inside either gym shoe (the space between the inner walls of the shoe and the sock and/or foot) and spread among the countless noses nearby. Taking off a pair of sneakers in a public place could only mean 4 things: 1) Some exterior entity had slipped inside one or both shoes (such as a wood chip) and was continuing to poke through the sock while the person walked, 2) the shoe itself was uncomfortable (perhaps a new, unadapted shoe that had not yet figured out a way to mold with the foot's shape and thus chaffed continuously against the top layer of skin)*1, 3) the person wearing the shoe had stepped into a puddle, drenching their feet (rare), or 4) someone was passing through security at an airport. The fourth possibility happened to be my scenario; and I didn't want the travelers around me to smell any odor coming from my shoe*2.
I looked at the people behind me; they were not watching me. I roughly detached my left shoe. Then, I picked both sneakers up with one hand, pinning the inside walls of the shoes together (four fingers in one shoe, the thumb in the other, pinching the sneakers together side by side like a crab's claw). I placed them both inside a bulbous gray bin and then placed that bin on the conveyor belt that led inside the X-Ray machine. The rubber belt moved a little (carrying the bin with it), but then came to a halt. It waited a moment, then retreated a bit, moving the bin back to its starting point. Then, finally, the belt carried the bin through the black, rubber strips that kept the innards of the security machine secret. It was inside.
After getting past security and retying my sneakers, I began noticing other people's shoes. I was amazed to see that everybody wore different pairs which they had, on one day like the rest of us, picked out at the shoe store. There must be billions and billions of different shoes in this world, because I didn't find any matches that day. And in a busy place like the airport, I was sure I'd find two of the same -- but I didn't. Everyone had on a different pair of shoes.
There was one time, however, when I found someone with the same shoes as mine. They were Nike. What an extraordinary moment. At that exact time, in that exact place, I realized that the two of us with the same sneakers must have been at a shoe store sometime in our lives and made the decision to buy the EXACT same brand of shoe. And not only that -- but also the exact MODEL of that brand. That was wonderful, and I marveled at it for a few seconds before having to say something stupid like, "Hey! Look at us! We're twins!" We both chuckled (maybe out of embarrassment, out of disbelief, or a little of both) and then returned to ourselves as we contemplated the chances of that EVER happening again in our lives.
*1: This is perhaps the least embarrassing of the different situations in which one might take off their shoe publicly. The relief of the removed shoe outweighs the embarrassment of the initial removal and might go as far as leading one to take off their sock as well. As soon as the sock comes off, the brain goes into a state of utter obsession -- focusing completely on the itchy red marks pressed down into the skin by the compressed sock. The miniature rash is most commonly found above the medial cuneiform bone (the little bony bump down from the big toe). The red indents of the sock engraved into the foot's skin yearn to be itched; and once you scratch that burning bump, a tingling fury erupts in both hand and body, causing a spasm of violent scratching and overwhelming pleasure until finally, you are satisfied. You can sit back and stretch your foot in a slow, circular motion -- feeling the lingering steam of the scratching drift around the foot and then dissipate into the air. This can often occur in theme parks.
*2: One might wonder why I was self-conscious of my foot odor reaching the noses of strangers. After all, I'd probably never see them again, right? Although this thought has frequented my mind like an undecided, pacing spectator, I have come to the conclusion that even though the probability of ever seeing the strangers again was quite low, the moment of embarrassment and later feelings of torment made hiding the stench a top priority. Out of the seven billion people on the planet, those select few (that won't ever see you again) will always remember you as the smelly-foot guy; and that pinch of poor reputation is enough to spill over your brain and soak it in a sour puddle of self-disgust. And THAT is why it still matters. Who knows -- maybe you'll run into one of those people someday, and they'll take that one moment of stink and use it to blacken the safe status quot you've worked to maintain your entire life. It's best to play it safe, I think.
No comments:
Post a Comment