In my life there are two emotional states from which I vacillate nearly equally. They are shame and regret. Between the two of them I find I have little time to feel much else.

I can produce a fine example, which happened just this evening. On my break from work I found myself with some time to kill. Having finished off my meal in a matter of minutes — I was rather hungry — I elected to take a walk through the River North neighborhood that surround my place of employment. My current employer affords a full hour for break to which I am unaccustomed and must often plan carefully for this surfeit of time I have been given.

While wandering aimlessly through the neighborhood I found myself nearby a convenience store frequented by folks looking to beg a quick buck. If you’ve visited or live in Chicago you’ve probably seen the fellows hawking Street Wise. It’s that kind of corner. I came to be in conversation with a fellow who rather enthusiastically complimented my shoes.

Now this is probably the point of the story where more savvy types would probably have detected the route this was going, but I am not so blessed. I also happen to be so enamored with my footwear1 that I thought it only natural that a random stranger might also appreciate them.

So, here I am on a corner and a stranger is talking about my shoes and he mentions that he would recommend some sort of conditioning product whose name escapes me and before I know it, and possibly due to an misunderstanding of what I had agreed to, he has produced a bottle of some damned thing from seemingly out of nowhere and has squirted in on my shoe. Next he is rubbing my shoes with a cloth and I’m too polite or dumbfounded to shout “What the fuck are you doing?” or in any way express my displeasure at this turn of events and then he has done the other one and the I finally realize.

He wants money. From me. And I don’t have any. Nor do I have access to any. Not too long ago I had checked my balance and realized that, once again, I have managed to overdraw my account by sheer inattention and naiveté.

So, I alert him to this fact. I tell him that I do not have any money and when he helpfully points out the ATM across the street I tell him that I really, really do not have any money and that payday is tomorrow. He storms off in a huff and I hate myself for falling into this trap because I really thought he might have actually liked my shoes.

I felt regret for not seeing it earlier and shame for doing so. This is the way it goes. One leads into the other.

Now, here’s the other thing: these shoes are made of hemp. They aren’t, by any stretch of the imagination, water-resistant. For that matter, they aren’t in any way, shape, or form in the need of any sort of polish or conditioner. They’re plain, simple, hippie shoes that don’t look like moccasins.

As I shirked down the street redfaced I came to the immediate conclusion that whatever substance that had been introduced to my shoes was quickly seeping through the porous material to my socks and my toes. Whether it was real or just the physical manifestation of my chagrin my toes began to burn and they continued to do so throughout the night. Somewhat ironically I caused them to look much worse than they ever did by furiously rubbing the tops against any available surface.

When I came home I immediately through them in the trash. I’m certain there’s nothing physically wrong with them, I just can’t bear the excess shame of wearing them anymore. Also, they smell funny.

1 Simple ecoSNEAKS Sno-Tires