With tomorrow’s trash collection, I bid farewell to my shiny white wingtips, my dancing shoes, the best I’ve ever had. I came across them in Madrid four years ago after loosing all my luggage. They were glorious on that shelf, and again on my feet, and my luggage didn’t matter anymore. They have served me well since, outlasting every romantic entanglement, and instigating a few. They’ve seen dance floors on three continents, walked the pavement of more than a dozen cities. Man, the joy and turbulence they’ve heeled me through. I am genuinely choked up at letting them go, but it is time. They carry the mileage and memories, the mud from the monsoon of my early adulthood, and as I approach my 25th birthday, the soles are worn through and the seams frayed. Any suggestions on a pair for the next four years are welcome.