No shoes? No problem

Weird things happen over the summer. University students find odd jobs, Danny Zukos meet the girls of their dreams and, if they’re crazy, people go barefoot. If they’re crazy attractive they don’t wear shirts, but that’s just not most of us.

Most of us, “us” as in people who employ reason and have memories, use shoes to protect the soft and vulnerable padding of our feet, much like we use shirts to protect our wan and weak self-esteems. But I, for one anomalous week this summer, let my feet breathe. Let me explain.

I had wanted to experiment with alternative feet dressing, i.e. undressing, at least since the weather got really nice around late April. I noticed that when I was outside I used shoes on fewer and fewer occasions, and really only on the way to summery destinations: the field, the park, the meadow, the green, the paddock.

Then I had a thought. What if I were able to develop thicker callouses under my feet as a protective measure for walking on hard pavement and hot asphalt barefoot? Then I wouldn’t have to wear shoes at all -- unless, of course, I wanted to enter any respectable establishment.

A quick trip to footvitals.com assured me that callouses themselves are not painful, but they are “embarrassing,” “ugly” and “unattractive.” Too bad we all have them. Although I was a bit afraid of the formation period, and although callouses are purportedly ugly as hell, I decided to adopt my potentially painful and vaguely immature plan for a week.

Really, I knew that when it became time for me to once again write this column after a summer of being uncool, when, inevitably, I wouldn’t be able to think of anything worth writing the column about, this week would come in handy.

On the first day of my experiment, it took me until well after noon to find any motivation to go outside. Could I be having doubts? My Mom thought so, but I dissented. Finally, I took a shoeless walk through the woods, irrationally pleased with myself for channeling Thoreau, McCandless and hippie-children everywhere, though even McCandless was smart enough to wear shoes.

The walk was nothing. Bring it on, gravel.

Sure enough, by day three, my feet hardened and became generally abraded. Daily walks to my hometown’s library garden, a grass patch about two miles from my house, became the mandatory calluses-exercising quota. After a total of six miles my feet were sufficiently sore, and after nine miles I could feel new tough parts materialize.

The effects of not wearing shoes, however, are by no means exclusively physical. As I began to walk with a soft, elfish gait in a vain attempt to avoid unnecessary scratches, I began to feel more thoughtful, either by association or on principle of the Aristotelian meander. Pedestrianism was no longer a race; it became a time for reflection. And I surely needed the time to reflect on certain dubious, journalistic commitments I had made.

The second unintended effect I noticed was that the syndrome called not-wearing-important-articles-of-clothing is on a spectrum, and by day five my symptoms had become more severe. By day five I really didn’t want to wear underpants. Why, if my feet weren’t bundled, did my nether regions have to be?

Fortunately, my experiment ended before the syndrome could manifest itself in any more clothing removal. After day seven, after my wacky week came to a close, my feet were slightly bruised, definitely more callous and ready for the comfort of woolen socks, even if it meant profuse sweat in the summery sun.

But I can’t say I’m sorry I spent a week living without my shoes. It made me more careful, mindful, slow and, above all, appreciative of well-kept yards. Maybe my next odd summer job will be in landscaping services -- that or the resident philosopher.