Sliding through the used shoe department @ a local thrift store, many would not gravitate toward the inevitable pile of grimy and tangled white tennis shoes.  Their identity is almost nonexistent when pummeled together on a metal rack, but each piece reveals a different story, a different wearer, a different use.

I usually grab two.

I guess you could say that my white sneaker obsession first manifested itself when I found a pair of Adidas original lookalikes in the distant suburbs. They were men's, a size too big, and fairly beaten up.  I fell in love.

(This was before the debut of Kanye West's Adidas Originals collection and the obsession over Stan Smiths.  I had no idea what I was getting myself into.)

The allure of the white sneaker--be it New Balance, Adidas, Nike--is not practicality or comfort. Rather, it is an almost inexplicable sense of cool brought to fruition by a history of rebellion and street, style and ease.  Their lack of color asserts them as a reflection of the owner's lifestyle like no other, allowing them to metamorphosize throughout their lifespan, from an untouched caterpillar to a grimy butterfly.   And though it sucks to realize that they will never be as crisp and clean as they were fresh out of the box (or, rather, the shaky thrift store cart), they will always be fresh in your heart.