Recently, I found myself wandering the aisles of a large Kansas City shoe store.
I was struck by the almost religious aura among other patrons. Women shuffling through the rows and rows of shoes, pausing at each one out of respect and deep contemplation. Often times, picking up the shoe and placing on their foot reverently, with great care.
There was an understanding among these hopeful consumers, often having to make room for another worshiper beside them. It was a respectful, yet slightly pious understanding. Pious in the sense that it was fine for another woman to worship a shoe as long as she wasn’t worshiping the same size.
And then there were the Saints. The ones holy enough to have found a shoe (or shoes) to take home. They stood in the check-out line with the satisfied look of dutiful sacrifice. Ready to embark on whatever sole-searching journey the shoes would lead them to. In the real world. A world marred with dirt, puddles and elements clearly designed to scuff, soil and wear down their precious new shoes.
Until they can return to renew their spirits and their frequent shopper cards with new shoes.
I didn’t buy any.