This is the final essay in Volume 1. I’m not going to move anything behind a paywall, but if you want to pay I won’t stop you. You may receive physical gifts from time to time as a token of appreciation.
If this project has ever made you rethink something you thought you already understood, that’s what you’re supporting. If it hasn’t, that’s okay too. Everything here will remain intentional, slow, and human either way.
Thank you for reading Volume 1. This essay closes it out.
Options paralysis.
I’m sure you’ve heard the saying…it’s become pretty popular over the past few years. It basically means that sometimes, when there are too many options, you find yourself unable to make a decision. This happens to me nearly every time I decide to look at my sneaker racks in hopes of wearing something fresh.
It’s crazy, looking at a wall full of shoes that I personally desired, sought out, and purchased, and then making the mental leap - somehow - to ‘I’ve got nothing to wear.’ It’s absurd. It’s embarrassing. It’s insulting to all that is holy.
I’m currently 45 years old…and I started ‘collecting’ sneakers around the age of 16. Over the years, I’ve owned tens of thousands of shoes…and I’m currently sitting at around 300 pairs. The average American male lives to the ripe old age of 76, and in just one more year it appears I will be 30 years from 16 and another 30 from 76. Wild.
30 years x 365 days = 10,950 days left on this earth.
If, today, I decided that I were never to buy another pair of shoes for the rest of my 10950 days, and rotated my shoes on a daily basis without repeating any and starting over, I’d theoretically only wear what I currently own around 36 times each. Those Tailwind 5’s I purchased in London? 36 more times. The Jordans VI’s I bought in Singapore? 36 more times. Those Saucony’s I got from the man himself? 36 times. Those Vachetta Jordan 1’s look better after each and every wear? It doesn’t matter - I’m ONLY GOING TO WEAR THEM 36 MORE TIMES. WUT?
For the past few years, when I see a pair of shoes I like, there’s this nagging thought at the back of my head: ‘Dog, I know you like these shoes, but you like all kinds of shoes. Be honest: you ain’t EVER going to wear these shits. There ain’t enough time in the world. Just leave them be.’
More than once, I’ve passed on deals, steals, and things I would have otherwise lost my mind for…all because, somewhere deep in my brain, I know. I know there just ain’t enough time in the world.
That doesn’t mean I’ve stopped buying. It means I’ve started reframing my thoughts. And my subconscious impulse to just ‘buy’ because I can has been changing slightly.
I’ve sold tens of thousands of shoes over the years, and I hate it. I hate the process and I hate the market and I hate the effort. But lately, pushing shoes out the door is one of the only sneaker-related things that gives me some semblance of peace. Everything else gives me anxiety.
Most sneakerhead stories start around the time you first start noticing the shoes you either can’t access or can’t afford, and little beats the feeling you get when you finally acquire or reacquire the shoes you couldn’t afford. Part of my ‘goal’ as an early sneakerhead (early-mid 20’s) was to reacquire the handful of shoes I wore as a kid (OG Air Raids, Infrared 6’s, Penny 2’s) and a handful I couldn’t find or afford as an even younger kid (Jordan 4’s, Black and White Air Force 1’s). And, you probably know how the rest of this story goes: my goalposts moved. Because when I finally got through my list, my list just magically grew. And grew. And grew. Until…’what list?’
I got through ‘my original list’ so many times, that I bought, sold, re-bought, re-sold, and finally decided that I could love and appreciate these shoes without needing to own them again. Funny how that works, huh? Not a single one of my original ‘grails’ is still in my collection. And truthfully I don’t miss them.
As a ‘mature’ sneakerhead, my collection is less about ‘aspiration’ than it is about ‘wearability’. And this has a lot to do with COVID, when I spent the majority of my days out on hikes and tromping through mud and enjoying nature with my kids. And ‘comfort’, as a half-baked concept, stopped registering 15+ years ago when I realized that I could find comfort in nearly 99% of the shoes I bought.
My ‘Daves Quality Meats’ Air Max 90’s were one of my favorite sneaker stories to tell - I bought Daves last pair from Dave himself at Daves shop that was being honored by Nike and I cherished the pair for years. And by ‘cherished them’, I mean… just stashed them in a closet and looked at them once every few months and dreamt of the time I might actually wear them. I never did.
So the first time I saw the possibilities of ‘stashing shoes in a dark place’ in a series of pics on Niketalk - the pics that collectors from Southeastern Asia and Florida had posted showing their Jordans and Air Maxes crumbling from humidity and basic storage - my brain overloaded with dread. It was the first time I registered with the reality that sneakers ARE actually perishable, unlike all of the things I collected before sneakers. And those pictures began to shape my philosophy. Once I realized what could and would likely happen with shoes I had spent years curating, the choice was being made for me, whether I liked it or not. My DQM 90’s weren’t going to make it.
After dragging those unworn DQM 90’s with me through several different apartments (and their attached closets) through the years, I remember thinking: ‘Am I going to be the last asshole on earth with a deadstock, crumbling pair of DQM 90’s?’ And that’s when I decided to part ways with them. It hurt, but…what was the alternative?
A few years later, I found a slightly used pair for cheap that was already starting to crumble - I purchased those just to watch them grow old in one of my preservation cases - and that’s exactly what I’ve been doing. They serve as a reminder: all of this stuff is passing.
When you’re young, the concept of mortality is so far beyond comprehension that the world truly feels like it’s yours for the taking. There’s always going to be another “perfect” time to wear whatever you’re saving.
But as you watch yourself get older, the math stops mathing. There simply isn’t enough time to experience even a fraction of what you want to experience.
And as silly as that sounds, that includes shoes. Even if I were fortunate enough to have the money to buy and own every pair I ever wanted, I wouldn’t have enough feet, or enough days, to actually wear them all over the course of my life.
That realization hits, especially as I’ve started telling myself, more and more often, “this pair is for my kids.” This is where I get to watch the shoes I’ve collected actually get used. Watching them stomp through mud or drag their heels as bike brakes makes each pair feel a little less wasteful. Maybe it even helps them develop an eye for the things that make their dad tick. Letting a pair get naturally worn down stops feeling like a loss. And choosing to put real limits on my collection has made it feel more practical.
Over the next 30 years, or however long I end up living, I’m reasonably sure I’m still going to love sneakers. But now, instead of loving them from the confines of my closet, I want to love them either on my feet, in my memory, or through my kids. Not owning less for the sake of being “minimal,” but choosing to participate where it actually matters.
And yea, that’s the long way around.