Over lunch on Thursday, I rushed home (it's a 15 minute drive) because I forgot my phone there, was going to run errands after work, and wanted to have it on me just in case. I'm naked without my phone. What if I see an accident and need to call for help? What if I'm IN an accident? What if I have the urge to call my mom, fart into the phone, and hang up? You just never know, and my slightly obsessive compulsive nature would lead me focus so intently on not having my phone that all joy and focus would be lost for the rest of my day.

A few days beforehand, the temperatures had rocketed to nearly 100 degrees, causing heaved pavement on several roadways throughout the metro. One of them was on I-35 northbound in Burnsville just before it splits off into 35W and 35E. The center lane had heaved up slightly, which MNDoT addressed by placing warning signs that essentially said "Hey, the pavement failed up there. Careful and best of luck. XOXOXXOO, MNDoT" Yes, thanks for fixing it.

I had noticed this bump on my way home from work the previous day and avoided it by getting into the right lane. Unfortunately the car in front of me took the "careful and best of luck" route and hurdled over the heaved up section at 75+ mph, sending a piece of loose pavement directly into the plastic bumper of my car. There is now a lovely black impact point and series of scrapes in the bumper of my silver goddess. Although the more I look at it, it doesn't look terrible. I could probably patch it up reasonably well with an epoxy kit of some sort. I soldiered on, retrieved my phone, ate a bowl of soup, and headed back to work.

My mission after work--find and purchase two pairs of shoes, one every day pair for work and general milling about, and one funky, casual pair for going out (dates, out to the bar, etc). For most straight guys, myself included, shoe shopping ranks right up there with eating hepatitis-infected poo or having a mime jiggle our balls while we yodel. Yet my pickiness over my shoes falls somewhere in between that of a drunken cowboy and an understudy for the role of Rum Tum Tugger. I am not a slave to fashion, but I know what I like. To further complicate the selection process, my shoe size of 14 makes it more than a little daunting to find shoes that fit well. Outside of the sneaker world, many manufacturers do not make shoes larger than size 13. Combining all of these pain-in-the-ass factors usually restricts my shoe shopping excursions to being an annual affair.

With both my funky and daily shoes in ratty repair to the point they were causing me blisters, I decided it was time to bite the bullet and venture out on a shoe quest. Over the years, I have owned at least 7 pairs of variations of the same model of brown Rockport walking shoes for my day to day activities. They're casual enough to wear with jeans while running errands but decent enough to where with khakis in a business casual office setting. They're also extremely comfortable, durable, and most importantly fit my gigantic clodhoppers. Looking on Rockport's website, I saw that Marshall Field's in Burnsville Center carries their products, and since that's just a few miles from where I work, that was my first stop. Unfortunately, the selection of men's shoes there is shit, and they didn't carry my beloved model. Piss on them--I continued to the Mall of America, which has an actual Rockport store. Ever my savior, they had them. But the salesman had me try a new model that had Reebok DMX cushioning built into it. Definitely a lot more spring and support than my old standby. At the same price as my usual choice, I decided to give them a rip. So far they're quite comfortable. Though I may still take the salesman's suggestion of sending the old ones in to be resoled and cleaned for $40. That's less than half of what a new pair usually cost.

This is where the marathon began--funky shoes. Store after store after store had nothing remotely like what I was looking for. And the stores that had anything I liked didn't have them in my size. Cool green sneaks at Puma--the biggest was a 9. Next! Shafted again on two different pairs at Bostonian. Nutty fudgekins. After walking several uncomfortable miles in my old Rockports, I realized it was now time to bite the bullet and drive all the way to Calhoun Square in Uptown Minneapolis. I didn't remember the name of the store, but I remembered there was one that had a large selection uber funky shoes to my liking (unfortunately at commensurately high prices).

On a perfect, sunny June evening with low humidity, Uptown was a madhouse of motorcycles, cackling throngs of hipsters drinking and dining on patio and sidewalk eateries, bewildered pedestrians, and overly brave bicyclists. I slowly maneuvered my injured car through the unwashed masses, parked in the ramp adjoining Calhoun Square and made my way inside. I stumbled my way to the store in question, which I found was called Bay Street Shoes & Accessories. After pawing through their clearance table and finding nothing, I carefully eyeballed their wide selection. The prices made me cringe. $100, $150, even $200+ price tags were the order of the day. This is yet another reason I'd hoped to avoid this store. I sighed as I recalled the $40 sneakers at Bostonian that didn't quite fit. After much careful internal debate, I decided to inquire about an orangey (I'm terrible describing colors--see the photo) pair of Campers at $125 (gulp) and a reddish pair of leather Kenneth Coles at $180 (double gulp). The perfectly coiffed, supergay salesman in the pink polo shirt cheerfully congratulated me on my selection, particularly lavishing praise on the Campers, and disappeared into the back to see what was in stock. The Kenneth Coles were not in stock, but he had the Campers in a European 13. Praise be to Jebus, they fit perfectly and were reasonably comfortable. It was bipedal destiny.

Prior to this, I was not familiar at all with the Campers brand, but evidently they are quite popular. As I purchased my impromptu dinner at Jimmy John's before leaving Calhoun Square, the young sales girl cooed as I set my bag on the counter to pay for my purchase. "Ooooh! Which Campers did you get? There is a pair of their boots I would just die for." I knew then that I had selected well. A gay man and a teenage girl dug my shoe purchase. I was the bees fucking knees. With an unbearable 3-1/2 hours and nearly 50 miles of shopping and driving behind me, I pulled into my garage at home, kicked off my sweaty Rockports, and settled in for the evening, assured I will not have to shop for shoes again until next summer, perhaps even the following fall. Suck it, retailers.