Herman Munster Shoes

You know how adolescents start growing in their extremities first before the rest of them catches up? Poor kids. It’s awkward, having disproportionately large hands and feet, waiting for the rest of the body to catch up. I used to teach seventh grade. It was hard to watch, most of the time. Sometimes, it was like watching The Three Stooges—funny, in a horrible kind of way.

Well, that’s how I’m aging. I’m starting with my extremities and working my way inward. There’s a certain symmetry to it. I’m coming apart in the same way I went together.

Lately, my hands and feet have been feeling my age. The first joint on my left thumb clicks incessantly. Audibly. I bend my thumb and an audible snap fills my personal space, like a very localized thunderstorm. I’m starting to do it unconsciously. Bend. Snap! Oh, God! Was that me?

And then, there are my feet. After a five, six, seven, eight, nine-hour shift, my feet ache. I tried Filas. I tried work Crocs. Finally, I asked ChatGPT what the most comfortable work shoe is. It came up with the Hoka Bondi SR. I assume the SR stands for “senior,” because that’s how I feel when I wear them.

The shoes have an impressive lift. I must be two inches taller when I wear them. Everything looks smaller when I’m in them, like visiting your old elementary school at your full adult height. The shoes are comfortable, though. My feet ache a lot less after a shift, and there’s a lot less pain and stiffness the morning after.

There’s only one problem. The shoes look like the shoes Fred Gwynne wore in The Munsters. I am the owner of big, blocky, orthopedic black shoes—and I don’t care. Let ’em stare. Let them gawk. Let them make snide comments behind my back. I’ll stick my size ten orthopedic thick-soled work shoes right up their bottoms.

Aging is full of fashion faux pas. My favorite is belt-and-suspenders. In the spirit of full disclosure, I wear suspenders under my clothes because belts don’t work for me. My stomach pushes my pants down, and I have no behind to stop the downward slide. I won’t say I was born without an ass. I was. Unfortunately, it’s on my shoulders.

Ultimately, there is comfort in it. I can still walk. I can do what I want to do and what I need to do. It’s a gift, and I’m grateful. Herman and I still make one hell of a team.