In Praise of Warm Vans.

Watered the plants this morning. The tomato plants need daily watering; I guess I used too small a pot. I pulled on the pair of worn, black, classic Vans that were sitting on the back step so I could traverse the patch of overgrown grass and dog poop to get to the spigot.

The insteps of the shoes had long ago conformed to my feet, the foam rubber compressed by pressure at ball and heel, the canvas atop the foam scrunched forward by my unique gait. The hard rubber half-moon that holds the shape of the back of the shoe has long since broken down, as happens with old Vans. You learn to turn the shoe upside-down and shake to dislodge the latest bits of rubber that have come loose, as well as any creepy crawlers who've decided my Vans are an available backyard condo.

The shoes were lying in the morning light, the black canvas body absorbing the heat, so when I pulled them on they were the perfect warmth for my bare feet. Supple from the sun, the Vans settled right on me as if they were an extension of my own body, delighted to be back in their proper place. As I tied each one the canvas top embraced my foot, my pinkie toe coming to rest in the crook that forms where the shoe front flexes. (I've never been able to decide if the hole that invariably forms in the canvas at that point is caused by the flexing or the toe.)

At that moment, there was no more perfect feeling than the warm Vans on my feet.

The shoes are at the peak of comfort; as time goes on the instep covers will become too loose and bunch in the arch, the back heels will degrade and spew ever larger chunks of rubber, and the holes at the front will grow so large my pinkie toe will pop out when walking.

But right now those Vans have the perfect level of decay, or experience if you prefer. And they wait patiently on the back step for my half-hearted yard maintenance. As I thought about the delight they brought me this morning, I realized I should hold onto that happiness and carry it as far forward into the day as I can.