Oh, Orange

This will be a quick post today, and it’s a promise.  As life should have its way with all of us, coincidences are popping up around us, and there is a divide between those who shrug/laugh it off and those who analyze it.  It’s already obvious where I stand on this issue.

This weekend has a lot of New York events, especially in the world of sports.  Syracuse is hopping with our local university’s vibrant and never fading orange.  As I stated in my Facebook post, I am speaking on behalf of the residents of Syracuse, we do cordially welcome all of the Duke fans and travelers to our city.  A game is a game, win or lose, save the fact that I am adamantly rooting for Syracuse, and everything after is life.  We encourage you to enjoy our local shops and restaurants in the suburbs and in the city.  We’ll embrace your presence.  Yes, we have a big-ish mall, but it’s filled with a bunch of chains that you’ve been to.  The weather is mild, so feel free to explore what we have to offer.  Win or lose, we look forward to competing with you in the future.

I’ve been wearing Converse All-Star sneakers since 1983, the year when I came out of the womb with such ferocity that I skidded across the floor in a Risky Business type of dance.  Luckily, I had my Converse on to help myself balance.  Actually, I was breech, and I entered kicking and screaming.  That’s neither here nor there.

orangeThe important thing is that I entered with the Converse on my feet, because the continuation of my life story would not be complete without them.  This is especially true for weddings, my First Communion, and other formal events.

My parents are pretty cool with allowing me to do so.  The not so cool part:   Young Christopher, who wore clip-on ties.

But then again, I can’t blame them for not trying with that aspect.  Sometimes I was a pain in the ass.

Flash-forward to today.  I was leaving after lunch at my parents’ house, and my mom was in the middle of a cookie baking frenzy, and the house took on such an admirable smell of deliciousness.  My mom, Italian in all of her glory, gave me the usual talk before leaving, a talk that I’ve heard since being a 5-year-old and one that I’ll anticipate hearing when I’m 55:  it’s going to be crazy out there, be safe, and call if you need a ride.

Moms mean well.

While putting on my grey Chuck Taylor low tops, it was clear that these have seen better days.  Not realizing, I told the sneakers that they looked beat, and the statement was aloud.  Mom asked what I said, to which I replied:   Nothing.  I’m just talking to my sneakers.  My mom then asked if she should be worried about me, because it had gotten to a point where I’m talking to inanimate objects that cover my feet.  Before she could razz me some more, I exited after hearing The Mom’s Speech.

My goal was to go to Marshalls, because DSW and Journey’s is way too pricey for Chucky T’s.  Marshalls often has Converse markdowns as well.  To the shoe department, to the discount wall!  I came across a pair of burnt orange, not obnoxious orange, All-Stars.

PERFECT!  However, the shoes were a size seven.  Disappointment poured over me in a cold sweat.  My body did not react well to such a change in personality.  Into the fetal position, I shrunk.  I wept.

Nah, that’s a bit over dramatic.  Unhappiness did triumph, however.  I stood there like a lost child, frowning.  As a customer walked by, looking at her seemed only necessary.  My finger pointed at the wrong-sized shoes.  She asked, What?

No, she didn’t.  That didn’t happen either.  Since those were the only Chucks on sale, it was off the regular-priced shoes!  Tally-ho!

What to my wandering eyes should appear!





Depending on footwear, my feet fit into 12, 12.5, and 13’s (U.S. sizes).

Among the stack of six boxes listed sizes, and one box read 12 and another read 13.  

Brad Pitt Dance

Victorious.  So, I bought them.

End of story.

The funny thing is, I wasn’t going to just buy a pair of sneakers.  Sure, they were needed, but the idea was to simply check.  On Syracuse Orange game day, a jackpot was hit with not-too-high, not-too-low, but comfortably-in-the-middle Chuck Taylors.

Coincidence?  I think not.

This is one of those freakish moments, a reassurance and a check to remind me to keep my eyes wide and my ears clear.  There probably some other aspects that I’ve passed over.  The hopeless romantic still is alive, patient.  The call for adventure is still itching.

***     ***     ***

As an aside.

Last night’s Bank Show with the Syracuse Improv Collective was phenomenal.  Greg and Shane played a wonderful acoustic set.  Nate cracked everyone up with his stand-up.  Stephen, a fellow collectivist, ran a class and got us involved out of our comfort zones, and gave us a hearty lesson on commitment; our set went so smoothly.  Gentlemen, To Bed–a house troupe–put on another hysterical performance.

I am super happy to have performed with Phil, who is the soft-spoken one of the group; his stage presence and wit definitely shined last night.

Here are a couple pictures from my set.  The first picture was submitted to SIC by someone from Gentlemen, To Bed or Satan’s Closet.  The other has been provided by Alexis.


Me, Alexis, Stephen, Emily, and Phil

11 thoughts on “Oh, Orange

  1. I still call them sneakers, and the burnt orange Cons — that’s what we called Chuck Taylor’s where and when I grew up, shortening even the Converse proper — look pretty darn snazzy, Chris.

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