Affliction, All Stars, and Adult Rebellion

As I was getting ready for Yom Kippur and already an hour behind schedule, I realized that I had exactly one non-leather shoe. The other one is snoozing contentedly somewhere in Memphis. They were separated during Tisha A’Bav, when I was still wearing one shoe and one boot. Interestingly enough, the shoe that made it was the boot shoe. Huh.

Since I was running behind to get to Highland Park and very much desiring to get there in time to eat before the fast began, I decided to jump on New Jersey Intrastate Highway 1 and jump off at the first place where I might be likely to find non-leather shoes. Which was how I found myself dashing into Target, desperately looking looking for the footwear. Now, although I don’t consider myself a shoe person—I don’t love to go shoe shopping and I don’t spend a lot of money on shoes—I still don’t like to wear ugly shoes. And, to make the non-leather thing more difficult, the only fashion tip my mother ever gave me was to never wear sneakers with a dress. Even when I was wearing a boot, I found flats (or nearly flats) to wear because I could not bring myself to wear sneakers.

But then I saw them: black Converse All Stars. My last pair of Converse was in high school, and the orthopedist threw them in the garbage for me. He took one, bent it in half, and said, “You know what these are? Caca. You know what caca is? It’s what we Italians say instead of shit.” Away went my beautiful rebel sneakers, my one nod to rock and roll clothes.

Here they were again, staring me in the eye with the pristine white star blinking in the perfect black material. Material—just cloth. And rubber soles with rubber toes. Which meant no leather. In less than five minutes, I picked up the shoes, confirmed with a sales person that they were all rubber and cloth, found socks and insoles (to silence the voice of the podiatrist), paid, and was out the door.

I silenced my mother’s voice, too. Converse are not sneakers, exactly, certainly not tennis shoes. They might not be dress shoes, but I could get away with wearing them with a dress. I did still have a small question in my mind, though, because the point of not wearing leather is that you are to afflict yourself on Yom Kippur, to fast and also feel uncomfortable. Were the shoes with the insoles too comfortable?

It turned out that they were not uncomfortable, but the podiatrist was still right—they weren’t the best for my feet. During the Amidah, my feet fell asleep. And my toes were a bit pinched because of the room that the insoles took up. However, I made it through, prayed fervently, and drove home after breaking the fast.

In the morning, the brand new Converse All Stars were again staring at me, sticking out from under my bed. They had not been cheap and it would be a shame if there were only used twice a year. How could that be fair?

Again, I was thinking of high school, how they made me feel like a rebel, even though they were wildly popular among certain groups. Could I wear sneakers with a dress? Was I too old for the rebel shoes?

For me, this is a question of not only fashion, but propriety. I felt disdain in college when I saw newly divorced women putting on baby tees with Diva written in rhinestones. Once, I commented to my sister that she ought to shoot me in the neck if I was still wearing Emily the Strange t-shirts when I was thirty. Yes, I judged the women who dressed too young harshly. What I wondered was, didn’t they know that that super pink pink was not for them? That it did nothing for their hair or complexion? That they looked older, not younger? Harsh judgment from a girl not even in her twenties.

No, I don’t wear Emily the Strange t-shirts anymore, or t-shirts at all. I shop in the women’s section, wear dresses, and cover myself well. But I do have affectations—I have allowed my hair to grow out, and I wear a flower barrette to keep it out of my face. Would the sneakers be too much?

Perhaps I had judged those women too harshly. Perhaps they deserved to allow themselves to dress like the youth for a moment, to flaunt their bodies. After all, they were coming out of the worst of it, from marriages in which they were not appreciated and probably rarely felt attractive. If clothing made them feel rejuvenated, wonderful. Down the road, maybe they would allow themselves to find a middle ground between the juniors section and the garbage bag shaped dresses they wore during their marriages.

I decided that today, I would wear my rebel shoes, with a purple cotton dress. At the copier, a woman confronted me. “Are you a student?” she asked. Before I could answer, she pushed me out of the way and made her copies.

Are the sneakers too young for me? Maybe. Probably. But I get to be a fashion rebel again, and atone for the judging I did many years ago, by in turn, being judged myself. So, shoot me in the neck, if need be. At least I’ll be wearing cute shoes.