Picture this — you're up and out of the house before 10 a.m. on a Saturday morning to run some important errands at the mall. As you walk through the mall, you see an inordinately long line of people in front of the popular shoe retailer. Those people are waiting for week's new sneaker release and a chance to get their hands on a coveted pair before the stock runs dry.
Usually, these explanations are met with scoffs, laughs and sneers of derision. Why would anybody wait in line for hours just to pay over $200 for a pair of sneakers when you can go get a pair at the department store for $50? For me and other sneaker heads battling addiction, these types of questions make us gasp in utter disbelief and question the meaning behind our entire lives. Our answer, much like that of other types of addiction, is not easy to explain, as it involves many underlying psychological factors that have caused our loved ones so much pain and suffering over the years.
Sneakers are my nicotine, and I have zero shame in admitting that. I can never get enough, and I'll never have too many, despite the fact that my bedroom floor is nearly entirely covered in shoe boxes. The thing is, I have to keep the boxes, because if I leave them in the closet or out on the open floor, they will collect dust and dirt and they will be unprotected from my room's atmosphere. Or worse, they will be stepped on by visitors. I just flinched in my chair while typing that sentence, by the way.
As with any pricey purchase, you exercise particular care with the item, especially if it is an article of clothing. But for sneaker heads, our kicks are more than just expensive feet. They are our family, our children, our beloved, which is why we take any measures necessary to protect them. We are always ready to fight the person that steps on our pristine, brand-new Jordans, and scuffs are unanimously considered punishable by death. Our dressers are lined with all different types of shoe care products, from brushing utensils to cleaning fluid. My cleaning habits are so obsessive that I can be found alone in my room some days, scrubbing away at the bottoms of each pair, alleviating some of the mental scarring that comes with the thought of the messes of everywhere I've walked. Sometimes I ask myself if it's all worth it, but then people ask me if my 4-year-old Retro Jordan IV Fire Reds are brand-new, and it gives me glimmering hope to keep pushing.
The financial plan of a sneaker head is one of much disarray and disorder, as our addiction drives our personal value of money to essentially zero when faced with the possibility of adding a new pair of feet to our coveted collection. We see the release date marked on the calendar of the sneaker release date tracker app installed on our smartphones, and we don't even think twice about the price until the grim day when our bank accounts begin to run dry, and we must wait until our next pay day to keep searching. A cool $220 for the "72-10" Jordan 11s coming out this Christmas? No problem, I'm definitely getting those. I hope I win the raffle!
Yes, a raffle. Some of these sneakers are so rare that we must enter a raffle just to have a chance at being awarded the opportunity to purchase them. Why all that trouble, you ask? It's just not that simple, but addicts all around the world, me included, wish it were. When it comes to our feet, we see no obstacles, and we will stop at next to nothing to fuel our desire for swag.
The outsiders will never understand the high we receive from coming home to a room stocked with Retro Jordans, KDs riddled with outlandish designs, slick Kobes with simply beautiful colorways and LeBrons with bulky, blunt themes. They don't understand what it means to us to know that everybody in the room is looking at and admiring your sneakers. They don't understand the research we do to keep our sons and daughters in mint condition or the fact that we can't walk in water, grass or any other disastrous surface without first removing our prized possessions from our feet.
We have suffered, battled and put our real-life loved ones through more pain than we could ever imagine. Our addiction is vast, our problem is real, and quitting simply is not an option. We need help, and we need it fast. There is no treatment for our disorder, and though our legal system sees no issue with our lifestyle, our families would tend to disagree, as they continue to support us through the ever-so-troubling time of our lives.
Next time you're saying a toast, pour one out for the sneaker addicts of the world struggling to make it through the day without stepping on a dirty sidewalk. Speaking from personal experience, they, and I, could sure use it.
