Oh These? Just My Drunk Shoes

“There’s a system I learned from a friend,” Rachel explains, “a trickle-down system, if you will.” 

She holds up a pair of duo-toned green Converse, the uneven laces hanging limp. The rubber bottom, once completely white, has been set with the dirt and grime Rachel has accumulated over the years, forming a blotchy grey color. 

“You have a pair of shoes, and then you have a pair of drunk shoes,” she says as she turns the right shoe over in her hands, revealing a large hole on the inner heel of the shoe where the canvas meets the rubber. 

“And whenever your day-to-day shoes get a hole in them, you pass them down to drunk shoes, and then your old drunk shoes get retired.” 

The pair of green Converse has taken Rachel on every weekend adventure during her college years, around the St. Lawrence campus and beyond. 

Rachel skips past academic buildings under the green lampposts, slightly spilling a drink, wearing her drunk shoes on the way to her destination for the night. The shoes have been with her every step of the way, on some particularly hard nights abroad, many Java performances, and even led her onto the Lee Hall roof. 

Look down at any college party, and glowing hazily under the neon lights will be a pair of finely aged sneakers, just like Rachel’s. These shoes are distinguished as drunk shoes, often referred to as “frat shoes.” For Rachel, wearing her drunk shoes is synonymous with going out — the two events cannot be separated. 

Her sneakers become a lucky charm, much like a faded jersey or a rubbed-down rabbit’s foot. Instead of a game or a big test, Rachel uses her lucky charm for a night out. 

Drunk shoes are marked by a few key features: muted, unidentifiable stains, semi-decent ankle support, and a filmy layer of mud that is impossible to fully scrub. 

“Light. Flexible. Durable,” Rachel flexes the Converse in her hand, bending the sole to the toe. 

“That’s what I’m looking for in a drunk shoe.” 

The shoes take the brunt of the clumsy encounters each weekend night, giving new life to shoes that would have been thrown away. 

Every year, it is estimated that 23 billion pairs of shoes are produced, with 22 billion being thrown away. Shoes don’t last people very long: on average, the lifespan of a shoe is between 8 to 12 months. 

Once a shoe gets a stain, is out of style, or has a hole, the average American throws the pair away. 

“I’ve had mine since freshman year,” Montana smiles slightly. A junior in college, she hopes her pair of black Converse will last until she graduates. “We really bonded this year, for sure,” she reminisces. 

Earlier in the semester, Montana sprained her ankle during a night out. Even so, she swears by the shoe. She previously had a pair of Air Force 1’s that could not stand the stress of a SLU weekend. 

“They completely fell apart,” Montana says. 

Plus, they didn’t provide the ankle support Montana is looking for. Her Converse, on the other hand, provides the comfort and durability she needs. “They will be lasting me as long as they possibly can,” says Montana optimistically. She can’t imagine a night out without the shoes on her feet. 

But four years is a long time to keep a pair of shoes that are already past their expiration date. Montana’s Converse beat the durability of her Air Force 1’s, but still competes against the wear and tear added with each weekend night. 

Rachel examines her sneakers, running her finger along a smooth section of the rubber that flashes bright white. She’s been using them as her drunk shoes for just over a year now. 

“They are completely worn down on this side but fine on the other side,” she compares the two inner heels of her shoe, trying to figure out how exactly her shoes got beat up. 

Underneath the two tears, the once-textured bottom is smooth from friction, as if she clicked her heels a little too hard. The shoes have always gotten her home. 

Rachel places her shoes on the ground, the toes pointed towards each other. 

“I think they are kind of shy right now,” Rachel observes her shoes under the fluorescent overhead lighting, brightly contrasted against the yellow carpet. 

“But then they go on a night out… whew. They open completely up.” 

Rachel’s shoes don’t see daylight often. 

Once they enter the “drunk shoe” phase of her trickle-down system, she no longer wears them to class. They are pushed to the side after Saturday night and ignored throughout the weekdays. Thursday night comes around, and Rachel gets them out again: It’s her weekend ritual. 

“My Converse are tried and true; they really just get me through it,” Montana says, briefly pausing. “There is something a little scary about not putting on a pair of drunk shoes to go out. Like when you enter the real world — what am I going to wear out?” 

After graduation, Montana doesn’t think her shoes will be able to carry the torch of her weekend activities. It will be time for a new shoe — something a little less… worn in. 

Montana brings up the possibility of needing to wear heels on a night out. “There is no personality. All the college memories will just be… gone.” She shudders. 

Rachel, a sophomore, knows her drunk shoes are already on the way out. “My day-to-day shoes are about to be passed down,” Rachel says slowly.

She doesn’t think they have room in her wardrobe once she is off campus. “My mom will throw these out the second she sees them.” 

The shoes that survived Rachel’s late-night puddle stomping, tree climbing, and a tumble or two will finally be put to rest. 

The very shoes that were supposed to be easy to throw away — designed to take the brunt of the weekend — become the hardest to leave behind. 

“Drunk shoes are a way to say goodbye to everyday shoes,” Rachel concludes.

“When they are done, they get a new job: the night shift.”