There’s a pile of brown boxes with dinged corners and blackened smudges stacked near the front door.
“More shoes?” my girlfriend asks.
“Yeah, I’ll get to them in a bit. Not really in a rush to open them up,” I tell her, staring at the of boxes with dismay.
I never did open the boxes that night, or the next night. Or even the night after that. Inside the packages were “Ferrari” XIVs, Jordan Futures, and Huaraches. All sneakers that I like and have every intention of wearing, but they could wait. It’s not deadstock anxiety. It’s not let-me-find-the-right-moment syndrome. And it sure as hell isn’t one of those too-many-people-just-bought-them-so-I’ll-just-wait-to-wear-them-until-next-year cases.
Collecting sneakers is like a precursor to how a hoarder’s life begins.
You see, my problem is actually more simple: I like my lineup of sneakers way too much to switch up the rotation. Flyknit Trainers, Flyknit Racers, and Pure Boosts are what I wear on the daily. I might add a pair of Jordan 1s or some ASICS in the mix, but that’s the extent of it. And it’s been like this for a while now.
The fact that I keep my rotation so tight, I’ve been asking myself, “Why do I keep buying sneakers that just sit in a room or get worn once and never to be taken out of the box again until months later?” I try to wear all my sneakers, but if I buy a pair of shoes that checks all the boxes for me—comfortable, neutral color scheme, and versatile enough to be worn with raw denim and joggers—there’s a good chance they’re being worn until they’re beaters, while other pairs—too many pairs—get left to collect dust.
When I was younger, I’d have one pair of sneakers and it would last me the entire school year. I would wear them everyday until the next school year rolled around and it was time to pick out shoes from the local mall and throw out the old pair. But this was back when sneakers were still a necessity. Things have changed since then.
Now, it’s all about the chase. Waiting in line and talking kicks, music, sports, and life with other like-minded people—that’s the fun part. But actually getting my hands on a pair? Compared to the chase, it’s anticlimactic—unless you consider inspecting a pair with an OCD-like intensity exciting.
It’s the same routine when a package arrives. Once I get around to actually opening the box, I look at the sneaker, for what probably seems like the millionth time after most likely blogging about it for weeks or seeing the hashtag blow up on the day of the drop. I double check the size tags. I spin the sneakers, carefully examining each one for glue stains or errant scuffs. I might even snap a photo for the ‘Gram for good measure. Once I’ve completed this routine, I tuck the shoes back in the box and stash them away, but not before telling myself, “Yeah, these look better in person. Definitely gonna wear these.”
Only, I never do get around to wearing them. Months pass, and the queue to undeadstock sneakers just grows larger and larger, pushing boxes further and further into what used to be a walk-in-closet. Collecting sneakers is like a precursor to how a hoarder’s life begins. First it’s sneaker boxes taking over your closet, spilling out into the rest of the room. Then, it’s newspapers and junk mail piling all over your kitchen countertop and table. Or, well, you know, more sneakers.
So this begs the bigger question, “What’s the point of collecting sneakers?”
I’m sure some people see the whole thing as an investment and are intentionally sitting on pairs until the day they can just cash out and get that car, engagement ring, whatever. Some are stockpiling sneakers, keeping them in DS condition, hoping to one day trade pairs or sell pairs, to get their grails. For this type of collector, that’s the exit: Selling to gain other material items or better sneakers. But what about everyone else?
Some just really do a great job convincing themselves they need to have every pair. Is keeping up with the Joneses really worth devoting an entire closet or bedroom to sneakers? Is stunting on Instagram worth passing on vacations? Is being able to say, “Oh, I got those, two of ‘em,” worth neglecting your well-being?
Make no mistake about it: I'm not trying to claim a holier than thou attitude, because I'm not. When it comes to sneakers, my definition of restraint is faint. It's practically nonexistent. But that's because it's justifiable.
For me, sneaker collecting is rooted out of love, but it's turned into a compulsive cycle. No more closet space? Easy—just sell one off and make more room for it. Sneakers, after all, are a commodity. And when it comes down to it, that’s the crux: For me, there is no end. There is no retirement from the sneaker game—not when I can easily sell off one pair to make room for another. I've got the ability to continue this habit without it completely consuming my life, and I'm okay with that. If I can have my cake and eat it, too, then why not?
John Q. Marcelo is a contributing writer to Complex and swears he's not a hoarder. You can follow him on Twitter here.
