I open the box and look inside. “Oh damn,” is all I can say.
Tucked neatly within are a pair of high-top Canada Goose Glacier Trail Sneakers—pristinely white, thick-soled, architectural. Ready and waiting to be worn by an effortlessly chic person.
Cue the crisis of identity: I am not anywhere near cool enough to pull these off.
I slip them on, zip up the front, tie the thick black laces. “Oh damn,” I say again (to literally no one—I live alone). These bad boys sure are comfortable. And slick.
They’re made with a fully breathable and waterproof technological material called HDry, meaning I can wear them on both Vancouver’s sunny days (the fleeting glory!) and its rainy ones (hello, darkness, my old friend). They fit like a glove—no “wearing in” needed—and feel both lightweight and supportive. Ready for anything: a hike, a jaunt to the grocery store, a night out with pals.
I worry that anyone who sees me in them will know that I’m just doing my best impression of a Fashion Person. Still, I wear them outside the day they arrive. Take them on a little tour of the city. Introduce them to the terrain that we’ll now be traversing through together. Forever. Because my life’s work is now dedicated to becoming a person cool enough to wear these things. To throw them on without a second thought. To pair them with outfits that don’t require serious internal debate. To look in the mirror and not say out loud (again, to no one): “These look totally normal on me!”
A friend on Instagram affirms to me that “the shoes demand a mega cool person.” I’m still not convinced that’s me. But my feet are having a hell of a time figuring it out.