I’ve ordered the exact same pair of shoes at least four times in a row over the past few years.

I’m not afraid of change, I just don’t believe in forcing the issue when there isn’t a problem.

Each pair performed admirably, accomplishing everything I asked of it before being worn through in the same part – where my big toe touches down on the balls of my feet.

They weren’t perfect shoes, but they felt right – like sole mates that would forever be a part of my life. It was too good to last.

The make and model are now permanently out of stock. They broke my trust.

I never thought I’d be the sort of guy who just orders the same shoe over and over again, but then again, I never imagined a world where I could ask a computer for shoes and get them the next day.

Online convenience is fine for repeat business, but to evaluate new shoes, I need to look them in the eyelet to see what they’re really made of. This meant visiting an actual store.

I settled on a relatively simple pair – sneakers, to be precise. With a brown and grey color scheme and tan laces.

It’s been a few weeks and I’m still not quite comfortable with them. I think I like them better for their soft and pillowy insoles, but I haven’t come around to fully trusting the laces yet and my ankles could use just a little more support.

Apparently, I have very needy ankles.

I bought them at Kohl’s after trying on one other pair. The whole process couldn’t have taken more than five minutes.

Shoe shopping was a much bigger deal for me as a kid. I loved trying on as many different pairs as I could. I put far too much emphasis on the shoe’s category, as if it could help shape my developing personality.

It bothered me that the categories were all athletic in nature. I had little interest in deciphering the different needs between a basketball player, hiker, or cross-trainer.

Tennis shoes? Who are we kidding here? I’d be served more milkshakes than tennis balls while wearing these shoes.

I really wanted a line of shoes geared towards someone with more creative interests.

My decision would’ve been much easier if they had only advertised a shoe line for those inclined towards performing magic tricks or playing the harmonica.

Yet still, I loved shopping for shoes as a kid. Not for the shoes themselves, but for the amount of control I was given over the decision.

The shoe-shopping experience involved measuring with complicated rulers that hung on the sides of each shelf. Each transaction involved a high-level consultation between me, the salesman, and Mom.

It was the first place where I was given full deference as a decision-making entity in my own right.

I didn’t have free license to buy any pair I wanted, but I had the absolute power to stop any potential purchase in its tracks. And my how I savored that power.

Only I could tell if a shoe fit properly. Sure, Mom pressed down on the tip to feel where my big toe ended, but was it too tight? Too loose?

Did it hurt around the non-existent arch of my entirely flat foot?

Nobody knew but me.

By far the coolest shoes I ever owned were Reebok Pumps, which made my shoes interactive by allowing me to tighten the shoe by pumping air in, or to loosen it by releasing air with a satisfying hiss.

This extended my shoe control to all aspects of my life. I believed that pumping my shoes before engaging in any activity would give me a boosted power of some sort, like Pac Man chomping on a power pellet to turn the tables on his ghost bullies.

I inevitably broke them by overpumping and was cast back into normal shoeciety where I’ve continued to toil to this day as a mere mortal man looking to fill a hole in his sole.

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