Everyone I know gets excited for a new pair of shoes. They come out of the box in a whiff of stench-free glory, simply itching to hit the streets. They offer endless potential that can only come with blazing white canvas and un-scuffed paten. Who knows where they could take you? Those dangerous new stilettos could attract the attention of the cute boy who turns out to be your personal prince charming. The neon Asics could carry through your first marathon, cushioning your toes through twenty six grueling miles of endless asphalt and crushed paper cups. A dancers point slippers could grab her the stage of Carnegie Hall, while a hikers steel toe boots might accompany him to the highest peaks of earth's snowy masterpieces. No matter who opens that box, they will go places in those shoes.

A worn-out pair of shoes shows that the owner is living life to the fullest. This revelation came to me the other day as I made another desperate attempt to corral the piles of laundry that were crowding my bedroom floor. As I shoved yet another pair of gym shorts into the bulging basket, I noticed a unique stink that had been liberated when I moved my shorts. The smell was a mix of unpleasant odors ranging from stale sweat, to smoke, to decomposing bananas. The combination mixed into a stench all its own, similar to when a child who gets tired of the colors on his paint palette mixes them all together only to find that their union is even more displeasing.

The culprit was my infamous pair of Converse. I purchased them freshman year from Journey's Skate Shop in the Mall for $29.95. Size 7 ½ , black canvas with white soles, white laces, and a thin red stripe. I wore them constantly, broke them in until the rubber cracked around the toes and the laces frayed. I realized that I had lived a significant portion of my life in these shoes.

Now, they are dusty grey, coated with mud from concerts that I stubbornly refuse to scrub off. The heels are rusty from four years of bleeding, band-aid resistant blisters. The “All-Star” logo has all but disappeared. The faint pink outline of a heart adorns the left toe. My beloved Converse were present on my first date, when I got my first concussion, at my first football game, and in my first Police “ride”.

To me, they prove that I have spent the last four years learning. The absence of dirt would have signified that I had spent my time safely indoors, learning only from my books instead of experiencing everything that my numbered teenage years had to offer. The exhaustion shown in their now floppy structure reinforces all of the lessons that have become ingrained into my personality. Some chapters teach simple concepts. A thorn imbedded in the sole where I figured out that even if you cant see the barbs on the bush, they can still snag you. Scars in unexpected areas of the cloth bear witness to my habit of getting stuck in mosh pit brawls, or simply forgetting that I am a bi-ped who hasn't yet learned to stand on her own two feet. Others are deeper. The one-of-a-kind footprints pressed into the inside prove that I am the only one to have ever worn them. Thus, the experiences that have occurred during their use are all my own. For example, nobody else will remember quite like I do how they looked when lit up by those ominous red and blue lights, or how I saw them in such great detail as I stared at them on my first terrifying days of high school.

In a conspicuous puff of indiscriminately colored dust, I tossed them into my closet where they toppled over a pair of bunny slippers to join a collection of footwear just waiting to be walked in. I have a million lessons left to learn, and even more miles left to cover. So I plan on doing as much damage as is humanly possible. Im going to step in puddles, walk in the corn fields, stamp the diamond design of the soles into the nearest available patch of wet concrete. In order to keep learning, I must wear out my shoes. This I believe.