In 1996 or so, my newly wed bride and I were invited to my boss’s husband’s 50th birthday party.
We were excited. It was our first grown up party since our wedding, to be held in Ponte’s, a nice restaurant on Desbrosses, in Tribeca.
I got a haircut, a new shirt, and a pair of Florsheim oxfords. The memory stands out because those are things I rarely do. Two years earlier, I was in a post-punk band and roamed the East Village in a motorcycle jacket, black boots, and similar grungewear.
Then and now, I wear shoes until I get tired of wet socks on rainy days. When the most recent iteration of this ended – and I set aside some wingtips – I dug out the Florsheims. My special occasion shoes.
So, does it feel like every day is a … (sorry) … special occasion?
Yes! I’m enjoying the memory of that youthful evening. And I’m burning my reserves, knowing that I won’t have a nicer pair waiting in the wings when the next big night arrives.
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