Items behind panes of glass, tagged with labels—they are alien. They’re industrial design and curves and bevels. Tech specs and touchscreens. Mannequin-decked fabrics and jewelry. They’re cold and lifeless, sitting under white lights like museum exhibits.

They’re alien because they exist in a world bereft of contact and concerned with shine, newness, and novelty. And these concerns don’t translate to the real world. Shiny blasts sunlight into your eyes. Newness is sitting in a blister pack. Novelty is here, and gone, then lost in a pile of coupons in a junk drawer.

Admittedly there is a process through which the alien item becomes the old favorite. That process is use. With use, a boring item becomes intriguing. Use begets weathering, wrinkles, and oil marks. Proof of Life. Each scuff and dinged corner adds the type of character that only comes from requirement and utility.

Consider the elbow patch, in two separate circumstances:

1. A suede patch on a new jacket elbow.
2. A suede patch stitched over a hole in the elbow of an old jacket.

The first strives for the second, bypassing experience and time and settling on the superficial. The second is authentic, a product of prolonged use and continuation. You’d reach for the first jacket for decoration, and the second from habit.

Shine Your Shoes?

Now, I understand novelty. The desire for new things is firmly ingrained in the foundation of our culture. I remember getting my first mountain bike and washing it in the driveway. I remember my my first cell phone, my first car, and my first nice watch. I understand the appeal of shine.

But concern with novelty can stop you from living, and enjoying, and using an item to its full capacity. If you worry about maintaining an item’s newness, you put yourself in a state of constant vigilance and caution. Mountain bikes are supposed to get muddy. Cell phones are supposed to go in pockets. Cars are supposed to accumulate mileage and get bugs on the windshield. Watches are supposed to get scratches from walls and take falls from nightstands.

Put another way: If you’re worried about mud, why get a mountain bike?

At some point in my life, I started fixating on footwear. Since then, I’ve replaced old pairs of shoes and boots systematically with better pairs—swapping canvas and nylon for leather, rubber soles for hardbottoms. I’ve bought new, thrifted, and accepted hand-me-downs. (My wife and friends can attest to this, and also have plenty of jokes about me.)

I like a good pair of footwear, and I like the idea that I can resole them and keep them for decades. But when I first started paying more for shoes and boots, I used to worry about every scuff. I’d wince if I didn’t lift my foot high enough on the sidewalk, causing my toe to scrape on uneven concrete. I’d look down at a new scratch in the leather, and think, You idiot. You ruined your shoes.

But then, I got over it.

If my shoes stayed shiny and new, what stories could I tell you about them? I could probably tell you who made them, or where I bought them, or how much they cost. I’d place their value on their life before me.

But if I beat those shoes up? If I just put the fourth sole on a pair of shoes? Well, then their value would be firmly in their utility during their life with me. They’d be interesting because of their character, rather than their potential.

The point of good footwear is not to be shiny and new forever. Shoes are made for journeys, and dancing, and running. Boots are made for slogging through mud and taking abuse (and walking, 'cause that's just what they'll do…) Leather uppers bend and crease in the toebox and stretch across the apron. Soles wear at the heel, and at the ball of your foot.

Sure, I clean and polish my shoes every so often to protect them. But only because I want them to last so I can use them longer. And every scuff, every crease, every tiny little imperfection I create is just further proof that I’ve lived with those shoes on my feet.

Plastic Living Rooms and Garage Cars

I remember the first time I saw plastic-wrapped furniture in someone’s house. We were visiting relatives in the suburbs of Chicago over summer vacation. The couch was bright and yellow,  featuring a pattern of yellow hibiscus flowers over a white background. It made the room feel light, tropical even, until we sat down, and the uncomfortable couches squeaked and squealed and stuck to my legs.

What strikes me now about that living room is how useless and unnecessary it was. It was a life-sized dollhouse room, built for appreciation from afar. Perhaps that was what they wanted. But it seemed silly to me.

It calls to mind a sports car that stays forever in the garage—parked under a nylon cover, polished and motionless. Without use, the things we keep around us become symbols: mere representations of the life that’s possible with those things. The garaged sports car is a symbol of freedom, performance, and the open road, but without use, it’s nothing more.

A Good Story

When you look back on your life, are you going to regret the scuffs on your shoes, the holes in your jeans, and cracked screens? Or are you going to regret your cautious steps, your immaculate wardrobe, and your life staring into liquid crystal?

Live your life like you’re not worried about staining your shirt. Peel the cover off your existence, and get in the driver’s seat. Turn the key. Listen to the sound of your heart, the roar of possibility. Launch into the night.

When the sun rises over the horizon and stretches shadows over your being, count the scars and remember how you got them. Appreciate the things that have made the journey with you. Years from now, when you give your favorite watch—all dings and dents and hairline scratches—to your child, make sure there’s a good story to go with it. It’ll mean so much more.