Have you seen my other Doc?
Somewhere, somehow, and for some strange reason, my beloved boot was wife-swapped, sole-swapped, or otherwise stolen.
Dr. Martens. Docs. Blister boots. Platform. Loafer. Slip Resistant. Air wear. Mary Janes. Sinclairs. I have no doubt you know the shoe, but have you seen my shoe?
I have worn the very same pair of Dr. Martens since 2013. Back when Bangerz was charting, I was primary school captain, and the opening act for One Direction’s Take Me Home Tour was 5 Seconds of Summer. I thought I had it all. Well, all but a pair of Dr. Martens. I wanted nothing more than to appear cooler than I was. I was smart enough to know I could not fill the shoes of the popular girls, but wise enough to know I could still technically wear them. I walked into Bondi Junction’s Platypus Shoes with a certain smugness. I sat on the bench like a queen on her throne, trying on leather and laces like it was caviar and champagne. I settled on ‘1460s Smooth, by some miracle bypassing boots of florals and galactic. The cashier smirked as she accepted my mother’s Mastercard. Granted she had just sold three hundred dollar leather shoes to someone without their pen license, but rather she knew what she had aided. The beginning of a decade of self-expression, and many, many blisters.
Somewhere, somehow, and for some strange reason, my beloved boot was wife-swapped, sole-swapped, or otherwise stolen. Heavy emphasis on boot, singular, solo, or otherwise alone.
It was an average afternoon when I found myself bored in conversation staring at my soles. I thought to myself, how odd that my feet appear to be different sizes, ha, ha, wait, how can feet appear different sizes when wearing shoes, huh, no, surely not, ha, ha, oh. I began the early stages of investigation and unashamedly took off my shoes in public. An apology video is still seated in the editing room. Comparing length, laces, and leather — these were certainly the same style and most certainly drastically different sizes. I had no choice but to laugh. I thought nothing of the matter and began to tell this tale as one of sheer uncertainty and absurdity. But, as always, curiosity creeps and crawls until it has its answer. We share that in common.
Where was my other walking? Who is its wearer? Have our imprints in suburban soil ever aligned? Was this the beginning of another Cinderella story? These questions manifest in my mind over all other matters. The exchanged must’ve occurred when my boots were off, and unattended. This was when real doubt jumped in. Was my Prince Charming a Skyzone Alexandria employee? Or worse, a member of Harbourside Strike staff? Both of these establishments have since been eradicated. Perhaps in the depths of a foam pit, or the nooks of a laser tag course was, displaced, my other doc. Alone, redundant, but at least similar to its owner.
I denounce sounding like a sneakerhead or someone who actively uses StockX. I would also hate for this article to appear as promotional content for Ben Afflecks Air. However. There is no denying the history a heel can hold, quite literally. The history of Dr. Marten is one self-titled as a “history of rebellious self-expression.” Following the aftermath of the Second World War, injured soldier Dr. Klaus Maertens sought supportive footwear to aid his injured foot. Utilizing the scant materials 1945 Munich could offer, Maerten crafted his own uniquely supportive air wear boot. Sparking the interest of old mate Dr. Herbet Funk, the pair of doctors joined forces to create, well, docs in pairs. Humble in appearance, and sold in abundance, Dr. Martens adorned the calloused feet of the British working class. Blue collars and yellow stitches went together like Marmite and dense bread. An invitation to anarchy was unintended, and Marmite quickly manifested docs into the shoe of the skinheads. Suddenly the shoe represented a history of rebellion and became an outward expression of community aversion to the norm. British youths transformed laces into unspoken acceptance and adopted the boots as better versions of themselves, and their country. Docs deemed decades of mainstream madness, and celebrity endorsement and were staples in the alternative community. Until they ultimately plateaued in the early 2000s.
Though my time on 2013 stan Twitter often felt like a battlefield, I’m not sure it quite compares to post-war cobbling. These timelines of conflict are undoubtedly drastically different, but share a common theme: a pursuit of self-expression. The naughties Dr. Marten's renaissance has witnessed the ebb and flow of trend cycles — from tumblr and tennis skirts to tote bags and turtlenecks. Myself and my mismatched boots have walked there, every step of its uncertain way. Heartbreak, several minimum wage jobs, concerts of all genres, international travel, and hopefully more than one graduation. Somewhere, somehow, and for some reason, someone took a piece of my history and I grabbed a piece of theirs. Our histories are similar enough to fit each other’s feet. The label of my docs has worn entirely, meaning I am honestly unsure as to which shoe was originally mine. I don’t know who has my shoe, nor do I understand whose show I have. It feels as though we are wearing a piece of each other. A piece of history, heartache, and hope. There’s something special about that. Something worth getting blisters for.