The Shoe-Family

Thursday, 9 August 2007.

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I climbed onto the bus the other day, and sat down in my usual seat. I came to realize, however, that the person sitting in the seat next to mine would cause me annoyance for the remainder of my trip. With headphones on, eyes closed, and an expression on her lips which read, “I'm comfortable, so leave me the hell alone,” she was bobbing her head to the much-too-loud hip-hop she was listening too. Not just loud, where wisps of almost-song leak out from around ones ears; this was much too loud, where you can hear full-well what, exactly, is being listened to.

In any case, I became intensely annoyed with this person, who cared none for others as she wrapped herself in a nigh-unbreachable sonic shell. I spent my quarter-hour ride wondering what had made her into such a selfish being.

Last stop arrived, and everyone, myself included, got up to leave. And in that final moment, I realized that I had a bizarre kinship to this person who had annoyed me so greatly: she was wearing my shoes. Same company, same style, same color; differing only in size. Suddenly, I saw this person in an entirely new light; gone was their hatred of mankind, and it was replaced by an odd misunderstanding. We were siblings of the same shoe-family; she was suddenly my ally, and I dearly wished I had brought this fact to attention, rather than ruing her existence. After all, even your favorite song can be put on hold to meet your shoe-brother.

(Of course, the whole thing probably would have been chalked up to flirtatiousness, and I couldn’t have that, shoe-brother or not. So perhaps my familial ideals exist only in my mind, and cannot take root in reality.)