If the shoe still fits

There’s a Miami newspaperman I know who is dubbed the “robo-saver” and that’s his shtick.  He writes a personal finance column and has a strong following.

Okay, now I see they need some polish.

The guy is cheap, and he’s proud of it.  I remember introducing him at a speaking engagement, and I’d learned minutes before that he’d been using the same disposable razor for three months.   He had the stubble to prove it.

But I admire him.  He’s a millionaire now.  Anyone who becomes a millionaire on a newspaperman’s salary is doing it right.

I was reminded of Humberto Cruz last night when I got home from my newspaper job.  As I walked into the kitchen, my left shoe let loose a quiet “honk” with each step.  Not a squeak or a low squeal like some shoes, but a honk. Like a soft-talking goose had come to dinner.

Now, it does this all day, although at work I tend to ignore it because my mind is elsewhere. But at home it’s a disconnect.  It reminds me of work, and so I want to shed the shoes quickly.

Cruz came to mind because I’ve been wearing those same shoes to work for the last seven years. Every day. They’ve been honking for the last four, I think.  I’ve changed the laces twice. 

I don’t spend much money, I’ve realized.  Oh, sure, collectively Cindy and I spend more than we should on things like eating out, travel and, of course, dogs.  But personally?  No, not much.  My weekly budget consists of lunches, some over-the-counter  pharmaceuticals, bourbon and books.  Oh, occasional music tracks, too.  But not many.

I have a closet full of clothes, though much of what’s in there is many years old. I add to it maybe twice a year, and then only after Cindy’s encouragement.  I rarely subtract.  I reserve shirt and tie for weddings and funerals. Otherwise, I dress casual because it’s easier.

Call of the wild.

I really don’t like to shop. Last Christmas, I decided to do my last-minute gift shopping at Kansas City’s busiest mall, not because it was convenient or attractive, but because I hadn’t been there in years and I knew it would be packed. So I wanted to observe the craziness like a sociologist – like peering in to a tightly packed monkey cage while buckets of bananas are lowered through the roof.

(Okay, maybe the monkey metaphor isn’t fair. Barking seals and buckets of cod?  Snarling lions and platters of gnu?  I like that one.)

It was noisy fun until I suffered through the Hot Garlic Beef in the food court.

I don’t think I’m cheap.  Like I said, we spend money.  Nor am I curmudgeonly – at least not yet.  And it’s not like I’m afraid of fabric and fashion.  I’m a fan of Project Runway, and goodness, I’m in the quilting business.  I could talk your ear off about color ways if I had to.

No, I think I’m lazy, frankly.  Out of sight, out of mind.  After all, it requires a mirror to appreciate your own nicely designed duds.  Who has time for that?  I rest easy knowing I’m not Narcissus.

Mirror, mirror ... no, not me!

There are social consequences to such behavior, I know.  There’s the risk you become a public eyesore. Like when you see those highway billboards that promote toll-free numbers for form-fitting bras … you not only avert your eyes but scratch your head thinking, “Wow, who came up with that?!”

A nasty shirt-pants-shoe combo could do the same thing. Worse, it moves as you move, afflicting an ever-wider group with visual stink.

But I’m not there yet.  I’m confident of that. For starters, I can walk a crowd and not detect a single person turning away in disgust or sympathetic embarrassment.  Heck, I'm a flashy dude compared to some folks I've seen.

Although now I wonder about the effect of four years of hallway honking by my left shoe.  Noise pollution, my co-workers might say.  Certainly more offensive than Mr. Cruz and his stubble.

Monday, I’ll try some WD-40.