My double strapped, blue and purple, cross patterned Chaco sandals smell.
No really, they smell horrendous.
They smell like four years of mountains, dusty roads, wet dog, and airport security. I noticed that my sandals smelled about 6 months ago, and yet here I am, wearing them right now. I desperately need to buy a new pair of Chacos to be a presentable human being again, but I can’t bring myself to throw away (believe me there is no way someone would want these if I tried to donate…but maybe I will try anyways?) all of the memories associated with these bad boys.
They were the shoes that provoked an Italian man to stop me on the streets of Rome and proceed to pay me 80 euros to quickly kiss my feet. They were the shoes that left horrendously beautiful tan lines on my feet while in South Africa. They were the shoes that I would find misplaced during the night by the neighbor’s dog in Costa Rica. They were the shoes that initiated a conversation that would eventually lead to a brief but beautiful relationship with the perfect guy (for someone else one day). They were the shoes that I ran 3 miles barefoot back down the road to retrieve after a night out in Guatemala. They are the shoes that I run in through the airport so that I can jump into my Mama’s arms when I make it home. They are the shoes that go with every outfit.
Obviously, the sandals themselves do not hold my memories captive; I will forever have the memories. However, I live the type of life where my environment is forever changing. This is the type of life that my soul craves, but a midst the chaos I find comfort in the little facets that remain the same. Yet, as I am writing this piece, I cannot stand the smell of my “memories”.
The question now is, Is it wrong to donate rank sandals?