Well, since posting my Life List eight months ago I finally accomplished something: #10 - Move to New York City. It's not exactly the smallest task on the list, but I suppose you have to start big! (Learning how to cook will probably be the last thing I ever do...)
In honor of this, I will tell you the story of how the title "The Concrete Loves My Shoes" came to be.
When I was younger, let's say beginning in preschool when I would play dress up with the girls and ending about 3 weeks ago, I always dreamed of being somewhere different. A place where I could walk around in my moms red leather pumps and not trip when the heels would sink into the grass. I needed a firm, supportive base, and not just for my shoes.
You see, I always new that larger cities were more accepting of anything that was "different". After 10th grade, I transferred to a junior college in Durham, which, in North Carolina, is the big city. I was amazed. All different kinds of people and so many different sidewalks for me to conquer. I stole my best friend Diana's black strappy sandals at the winter formal junior year, and never gave them back. I would walk around, from class to the cafeteria, from my dorm to the super market, and would relish in the sound of the words, "Those are so you."
When I started applying to colleges, my dream school was NYU. "Enjoy one of the finest universities in the world, in the heart of New York City." I memorized that because I would fall asleep reading the brochures. A whole city, a world, a universe of concrete, all for me to walk on.
And the concrete loves my shoes.
That was the only good line that came from (what I know now to be) my tragic application essay. Needless to say I did not make it to NYC, but migrated back east to my roots. I met my best friend Z, who basically became the concrete in my life. We would spend hours playing dress up and doing photoshoots, drinking Pepsi slushies and watching Sex and the City. And while I knew that anyone actually living like Carrie Bradshaw was as real as a unicorn riding through a car wash, I couldn't help but feel a tug on my feet.
"The concrete loves my shoes" became my mantra. It became my goal. It became my drive. I would (and still do) repeat it to myself, over and over again, rhythmically, to the beat of my heels on the sidewalk.
Click click click. The concrete loves my shoes. Click click click. The concrete loves my shoes.
Someday it will be the title of my life story. Until then, it lives here. With the sidewalk and me.