My family went bowling recently.
One of the peculiar aspects of bowling is the funny shoes they give you to wear.
The shoes at the place we went to were half neon orange and half neon yellow. Mine even had a white velcro strap. Classy.
Now there are legitimate reasons they want us wearing their shoes, besides keeping the lanes clean and pristine (which I will now speak authoritatively about, after a quick Google search): First of all, the soles are super slick, which helps you slide, allowing you to achieve a smoother motion when bowling. If you’re sticking to the floor, you can injure your knee, ankle, or foot. Meanwhile, the rubber heel helps you stop sliding after you roll the ball, keeping you from falling.
Fine.
But must they also look like clown shoes?
It’s hard to be taken seriously after rolling a strike like a boss when you strut back to your seat looking like Bozo the Clown’s small-footed second cousin with a neon fetish.
Alas, after thinking about it longer than a sane person would, I wonder if it might be beneficial to always wear bowling shoes.
Every day. Even when we’re not bowling.
Maybe it would help us take ourselves less seriously.
After all, taking ourselves too seriously is one of the biggest symptoms of Adultitis. In our quest to be seen and valued, it’s tempting to put on airs to impress others. But that can lead us to ignore people who need our help (or alienate us from people who can help us). Or, due to our desire to be seen as competent or feel in control, we are prone to pity parties or temper tantrums when things don’t go the way we expected. All forms of pride.
We could all benefit from a regular dash of humility.
What if that’s why we’re all currently walking around in bowling shoes of a different sort?
Maybe that’s what that receding hairline is for. Or your conspicuous birthmark. The missing limb. The bowed legs. The lisp. The scar. The cleft palate. The gap between those two front teeth.
Most people have something about their physical appearance they wish was different (some being more obvious than others, of course). What if we looked at these “imperfections” as bowling shoes? Something we may not have chosen for ourselves, but have to wear regardless. Maybe they keep us grounded, from sliding into pride, reminding us that we aren’t perfect while helping us to take ourselves less seriously.
Because even after rolling a perfect day, you’re still wearing those funny shoes.
Oh, and it can’t hurt to keep in mind that everyone else is wearing them, too.
🤔 I wonder…what are your metaphorical bowling shoes and how have they benefitted you in some way?