New experiment: Wearing my special occasion shoes every day.
In 1996 or so, my newly wed bride and I were invited to my boss’s husband’s 50th birthday party.
We were excited. It was our first grown up party since our wedding, to be held in Ponte’s, a nice restaurant on Desbrosses, in Tribeca.
I got a haircut, a new shirt, and a pair of Florsheim oxfords. The memory stands out because those are things I rarely do. Two years earlier, I was in a post-punk band and roamed the East Village in a motorcycle jacket, black boots, and similar grungewear.
Then and now, I wear shoes until I get tired of wet socks on rainy days. When the most recent iteration of this ended - and I set aside some wingtips - I dug out the Florsheims. My special occasion shoes.
So, does it feel like every day is a special occasion?
Yes, in that I’m burning my reserves and enjoying the sense memory of that youthful evening, knowing I don’t have a nicer pair waiting in the wings, when the next big night arrives.