(Said sneakers pictured above)
They want me to buy new shoes, but I will not.
And, by “they”, I mean my sister and boyfriend. If I told my friends that I threw out my sneakers and was currently “sneaker-less” (running shoes aside), one can bet that a similar sentiment would be expressed.
Granted, these sneakers were worth every penny of the $55 I paid for them back in the fall of 2016. They lasted three years, multiple spins in the washing machine, and thousands of miles on my feet in over fifteen countries and too many cities for me to count. They went the distance. Until, of course, they became permanently discolored, developed gaping holes in the soles, and the interior cushioning wore straight through to a point beyond repair.
To this day, I miss them. But, no, I will not be replacing them.
Yes, this seems counter-intuitive. “But they lasted three years” and “obviously they were good quality” one might say; yet, I refrain from tapping the few clicks on my phone that would have them quickly shipped again to my door.
Okay, okay, I’ll tell you why.
First of all, I have fifteen OTHER shoes that are in perfectly good condition with excellent soles. Maybe they won’t look as cute with my outfits as my white sneaks did, but it has forced me to break out my lesser used pairs and bring them out into the light of day. I’ve gone outside of my comfort zone with my footwear and I’m actually loving it. In fact, I might even go as far to say that I’m looking more fashionable and classy than ever? That’s a win in my book.
Second, my white sneakers had to be tossed into the trash can and will end up in a landfill. Nothing irks me more than throwing away shoes. Clothes can be turned into rags, torn apart and reconstructed into something new, or worst case: donated. Shoes though, they don’t seem to have much of an alternative future (besides the quaint and quirky shoe garden in San Francisco). With that knowledge, I can’t bring myself to buy a new pair that will once again, in approximately three years time, end up in a garbage heap too. Since I started this project, I’ve become much more conscious and careful where and from which companies I purchase my clothes and products, and generally speaking, if I don’t buy something secondhand, then I buy sustainable, biodegradable materials (which are generally natural and non-plastic) that will decompose. And when buying new shoes, I buy ones that I know I’ll love forever and can be repaired and re-soled to last me the length of my lifetime. Unfortunately, my favorite sneakers did not fit that bill.
Third, I’m seeking a minimalist lifestyle, and fifteen shoes even feels like a lot to own. Especially since I have two sets of flip flops and triple pairs of black boots. Yes, I love and wear them all (they survived my Marie Kondo and Minimalism Challenge purge), but it’s still fifteen pairs. So, no, I don’t need to add a sixteenth pair to my wardrobe when I have three weeks’ worth of all weather shoes that serve me just fine.
With my new minimalist, sustainable mindset, buying a new pair of sneakers seems like the epitome of frivolity. How fragile is my life that I can’t go without owning a pair of white shoes? A mere hundred years ago, most people were lucky to own two pairs of shoes. Now, we feel deprived if we don’t have a closet full of sneakers or heels to match every single outfit in more colors and style combinations than could possibly be worn in one person’s lifetime.
They want me to buy new shoes, but, no thanks, I know I can go without.