Shoeuthanasia

I've got a little problem at work. I'm being eaten alive.

Granted, my job is not as tough as that of a herpetologist searching the wilds of South America for the world's largest green anaconda.

But I am wrestling with my own biting issue. As a molder of young minds, braving the rugged terrain of ninth grade social mores, I need a pair of comfortable shoes. And I have them. Therein lies the problem.

My brown leather cushy-soled shoes get me through the day. They get me through the half-day even better. Changing shoes at lunchtime makes me feel like a new woman. And if not new, at least like a recently-detailed and new-on-the-market woman.

Nobody complains about my casual footwear, my white leather New Balance that start the day with me. My workplace has a relaxed atmosphere. You can wear just about anything besides jeans or sweats or belly shirts. It's not like I need a pair of Manolo Blahniks to hike down from my perch on the parking lot wall and remove a condom from the varsity locker room door handle. Okay. Honestly, I just reported that to the principal, and the custodian did it for me. But he wasn't wearing Manolos, either.

I don't need a J. Peterman Himalayan walking shoe to tramp around the classroom while visually probing the landscape for cell phones. My comfy brown shoes do the trick. But with a price.


My shoes are hogs. Sock hogs. They eat more socks than a truckload of recalled dryers on the way back to the manufacturer for the sole defect of sock-eating. The shoes scarf up socks like a sixteen-year-old boy scarfs up pizza at an all-you-can-eat buffet. Those sock-hogs have my little piggies squealing, "Wee, wee, wee!" all the way home, in fear of being cannibalized. At some point, I fear, they will need to be shoeuthanized.

But they are so comfortable.