I bought new sneakers a few months ago—a pair of black Sketchers slip-ons—but they gave me such blisters that I had to stop wearing them. I mentioned this to an online friend of mine, a young footwear fetishist who is always interested in my shoe news (not exactly a sizzling topic, since, until recently, I only had one pair). He not only recommended that I buy a new pair, he sent me a list of approved brands and styles and exhorted me to “come into the twenty-first century.”

Now, silly me, I had thought I was already in the twenty-first century, but despite the fact that the year on my calendar begins with a two, I have been living in a small residual bubble of the nineteen nineties. This explains my desire for a tattoo, my refusal to believe George Bush really is the president, and my recent purchase of black Sketchers slip-ons. But there is hope for me, oh yes, for last night I went out and bought the sneakers that nine out of ten young shoe fetishists recommend: the New Balance 806 in navy blue and grey. (Size ten and a half for those of you out there who care, and you know who you are.)

I wore them this morning while taking Goblin for a walk. We outran other dogs, chased squirrels, and climbed the five flights of stairs back to my apartment with ease; there was a new bounce in my step.

It was the dawning of a new day.

Of a new century, even.

I saw my friend online and told him of my purchase, and he begged me to send him my old, blistery shoes. “But you said you wouldn’t be caught dead in them,” I said, perplexed.

“They’re not to wear,” he said.

And that, my dears, is another example of Too Much Information.