I was one of those people who reacted to Converse boots like Nosferatu reacted to sunlight – I despised them. I can recall saying, on more than one occasion, ‘I would rather die than wear Converse.’
Remember when there was that Converse craze a few years back? My sister and I used to march around town, and count the amount of people wearing Cons. The number would always sicken me and I’d take an active dislike to the stranger wearing them. Then my sister started wearing them, green ones, and I needed to be bitter all by myself. I don’t know why I felt so strongly, I mean fuck, they’re shoes.
Anyway, the other week the man and I were thrifting and I noticed a pair of black and grey converse in immaculate condition. Before I could think about what I was doing, I was taking them off the shelf and trying them on. Comments came gushing from the man, and he motioned to his own Converse, implying we could be Con buddies.
They fit beautifully and I was surprised at how damn good they actually looked. But, like a smack around the face, I was reminded that I was supposed to hate these shoes. So I put them back. We left the store and I was empty handed…
…but just an hour or so later I returned. I returned and I picked up those fucking boots and I took them to the counter and I parted with 85 Krona and I went home. And, I felt good. I felt really, really good. I’d done something I could never have envisaged myself doing, I’d broken a style chain I’d been strangling myself with for years.
I’ve been wearing my boots almost daily since I bought them. I was imagining that I’d miss my Ranger Army Boots like I’d miss a limb or an eye, but, as it turns out, I haven’t! What, might I ask, is happening to me? I’m still a little bewildered about the whole experience. Could I, perchance, be growing the fuck up?