Ode to my magenta Roos

I found you unexpectedly, sitting quietly on the not-so-used shelves in Murfreesboro's Marti&Liz Shoes, between the scores of ordinary, mum white tennis shoes. Your colors were so loud and unapologetic that I instantly picked you up for inspection, caressed your suede skin, and peered inside your tiny little useless zippered pockets, perfect for smuggling crack should I ever need to.

You were an easy sell — $25 brand new — and I knew there was a good chance something was wrong with you (or you were an "irregular" as the biz so rudely says) and I had to have you, even if it meant settling for a half size too small. For you, love, it wasn't settling. It was bettering myself so I could be with you.

And now, when I wear you, all I have to do is look down or catch a glimpse of my feet in the mirror, and I smile. Your clashing colors make no practical sense — dark magenta, light magenta, black, and orange? ew! — and for that, I love you. I love that you came with white and magenta laces. I love that your soles are so thin I can feel the contours of the ground below me. I love that your silly pockets won't stay zipped because the kangaroo charm hanging on each zipper is so heavy that, as I walk, it coaxes each pocket open.

It's been a long time since I loved a pair of shoes like this. I had a long, smelly affair with my old Adidas sandals throughout high school, but that was a childish bond based in lazy comfort that eventually dissolved with the cracking rubber of the soles. Take care of my dogs, magenta Roos, and I'll take care of you.