Anti-Fashion

Inevitably, if you go abroad, there will come a time about three months into your adventure where you realise that you never want to wear a single thing you brought with you ever again. There will come a time when even the sight of these most hated garments will drag up the moments you want to forget- the grey sweater you wore the time you wandered around Paris at the ass crack of dawn desperately trying to find the airport bus station, the flannel slippers you wore every single day for six weeks as you froze your ass off in your unheated apartment, the checkered scarf that permanently smells of old croissants from the time you used it to steal from the hostel's free breakfast spread because you couldn't afford to feed yourself and go to Rome at the same time.

In case you didn't notice, I'm not exactly talking about you anymore.

In addition to the above, there is one article of mine that I had extraordinary mixed feelings about: the once-attractive steve madden boots I brought with me.


The boots. Please ignore my I'm-squinting-because-I-forgot-my-sunglasses expression.

These boots have walked in America, Canada, Ireland, Italy, France, and Germany. The miles on these things rivals those acquired on my brooks sneakers the fall I did varsity cross country. But unlike my brookes, which were made for high mileage, these boots were not. They are in a sad sorry state now. When it rains, they leak the second I put my foot down on damp cobblestone. The five hour Cinqueterre hike ruined the zippers. The cracks running through the leather these days rival the San Andreas fault line.

It is a bad, bad situation my friends. I seriously doubt these boots will be making it into the States again.

But, even though I have forty plus pairs of shoes back home waiting for me, and I've spent more than I'm willing to admit to on shoes in Europe, a part of me is insistent on not throwing the boots out. Even though Kara, after seeing me wrap my feet in plastic bags to avoid the insta-flood that now happens every time I wear them in the rain, vowed to throw them out for me if I can't bring myself to do it. These boots have never failed me, and what have I done for them in return? I walked and walked and walked all over them until they were crippled.

As the saying goes, all good things must come to an end, but I always thought this applied to more monumental things in life. Not the death of my favourite pair of shoes. Take it from me- if you plan on globetrotting, make sure you're trotting in something that'll last you, because even if the thought of putting on that stretched out and mangled black cardigan one more time makes you want to cry, you're not getting anywhere fast in those zebra-print flats that seemed like a good idea three months ago.