These shoes

As I noted in my last post, I'm new here, so please forgive me if I bore you by explaining that an element of our seminary life is the dress code. During weekdays, we are expected to sport clothing that fits the category of business casual: slacks, collared shirt, belt and dress shoes. If you've been at this seminary thing for as long as I have, you quickly discover that shoes which look nice tend to lack longevity. It's probably a niche market of sorts, but if anyone from the major shoe companies happens to read this blog, consider designing a pair that has a durable sole, comfortable fit, and good looks. Most of the campus which I am required to traverse as part of the daily grind consists of concrete, or, seasonally, concrete covered with a thin layer of dissolved and crushed sidewalk salt. Although convenient for pedestrian traffic, these diamond-hard, chemically-caustic surfaces have taken their toll on my footwear.

Observe. In the photo, I have pointed out with the red circle exactly where the wear has won out and completely passed through the rubber on the bottom of the shoe. Though the shoes are still comfortable to wear, they make me a tad self-conscious on account of the fact that the rubber has pulled away from the bottom of the sole. Hence, air enters through this hole and is trapped in the bottom of the right shoe. When this air is evacuated by the otherwise innocuous act of walking, complex physics which I never studied (I'm an English major) come together in such a way that certain audible frequencies are created. In short, my shoes squeak.

That's not such a big deal, but there are several points in the life of a seminarian where silence is paramount. For instance, when one enters the 6:00 AM Holy Hour, it is enough that one's footsteps echo around the worship space designed to amplify the glories of liturgical music. To add to the clop-clop a distinctive squeak . . .

As I see it, I have two options for a remedy. I could attempt the delicate art of being a cobbler (cobbling?) and attempt to attach another sole or cut away the loose part. Or, I could buy a new pair of shoes. For my birthday this past January, my brother gave me a Swiss Army Knife. Since seminary life consists of few if any occasions to engage in whittling, I've used it as a fancy letter opener while always hoping to employ it for higher purposes. Perhaps the day has arrived.