Why You Need at Least 3 Pairs of Shoes Before the World Ends

A Treatise on Footwear, Fate, and the Fragility of Civilization

Greetings from the edge of the abyss

Hello to pretty strangers, and how you doin’ to the even prettier ones, the philosophers, and the people who still wear socks with holes in them—probably paired with worn-out Bata slippers that have seen better days.

Today, we must discuss something of dire importance. Not taxes, not the inevitable heat death of the universe, not even the fact that we still don’t know how eels reproduce (though, truly, what are they hiding?).

This is about why, before the world descends into fiery oblivion, slow bureaucratic decay and credit card debt, you need at least three pairs of shoes.

As the great inventor, Steve Jobs might have said if he’d focused more on footwear and less on Macs: “Innovation distinguishes between a leader and a follower — and nothing innovates your survival chances like proper arch support.”

The Duality of Shoes: Survival and Swagger

Since the dawn of time, humanity has been obsessed with two things: not dying, and looking good while not dying. Shoes, my friend, are the ultimate expression of that duality.

Nietzsche almost said: “He who has a why to live can bear almost any how—especially if the ‘how’ involves waterproof boots.”

Not only do they protect you from rogue Lego bricks (toddler-engineered pain traps), but they’re also a message to your better-off friends: “Hey, I’ve got my life together too. Look at these laces. Look at this arch support on my crisp Nike Air Force 1s. I am a functioning adult (early 20s btw).”

The ancient Greeks had a saying: “Know thyself.” We humbly add: “And know thy terrain.”

Because as Sun Tzu might observe if he’d written The Art of War as a Shein Marketing Head: “All warfare is based on deception—and nothing deceives the apocalypse like having the right footwear for every disaster scenario.”

Now, let’s simulate doomsday scenarios:

Scenario 1: You’re sprinting from a pack of feral dogs. Your only shoes? Crocs (war mode activated).

Verdict: Dead.

Scenario 2: Trekking across a radioactive wasteland. Your only shoes? Stilettos.

Verdict: Dead (but fabulously).

Scenario 3: Trying to impress the last surviving human. Your only shoes? Toe shoes.

Verdict: Emotionally deceased.

You see the pattern. One pair is a liability. Two’s a compromise. But three? Three pairs is wisdom.

The Tarot of Terrain: Choosing Your Trio

Shoes carry the energy of where you’ve been and where you’re headed. So, you should be choosing your pairs accordingly:

• For Strength – Woodland combat boots. Nothing says “I eat concrete for breakfast” like footwear that can double as a weapon.
• For Speed – Puma running shoes, for when you need to outrun both chaos and your own poor decisions.
• For Soul – The wildcard. Maybe Crocs, because irony is the last language to die in the apocalypse.

Capitalism’s Eulogy, As told by its ghosts

Act 1

Here’s what the silent witnesses of civilization have to say about the Three-Shoe Principle:

1. A Sentient, Deeply Traumatized Shoe Rack

“I’ve held 27 pairs in my lifetime. Only three survived the Great Puppy Chewing Incident of ‘19. Learn from their sacrifice.”

The shoe rack’s trauma is not its own. It is the trauma of demand. To hold 27 pairs, then watch 24 vanish to the jaws of fate (or a teething Labrador), is to understand capitalism’s first law: abundance is an illusion.

2. A Cursed Payless Loafer(s) (Left Shoe Only)

“My right half was lost in a divorce settlement. My owner wore mismatched shoes for a year. Be better than him.”

We are all just one disaster away from mismatched Payless loafers, clinging to the myth that more choices mean more control. As the left shoe quietly mutters from its divorce settlement, “The system breaks pairs first, then people.”

3. A Broken Escalator in a Subway Station:

“For 12 years, I moved bodies upward. Now I am a staircase. All progress is temporary. All shoes are holy.”

“All progress is temporary”, could be the tagline for late-stage consumerism.

We ride upward on machinery we didn’t build, only to find the power was cut long ago. Now we climb its static teeth, blisters blooming, while the adverts still scream “NEW ARRIVALS!” from shattered screens.

4. A Forgotten Library Book Titled How to Survive Anything:

“No one checked me out after 1987. The last reader scribbled in my margins: ‘Step 1: Hoard shoes. Step 2: Outlive your enemies.’ I am wisdom. I am ignored.”

The library book knows the truth: survival manuals go unread until the fire is already at the door.

Capitalism sells the dream of preparedness, but stocks only enough for those who can outrun the rush.

Act 2

Imelda Marcos, who famously (and controversially) owned 1,060 pairs of shoes, understood this. They were never about feet. They were about fear. Fear of scarcity, fear of being outshone, fear that somewhere, someone had a pair you didn’t.

Coco Chanel nailed the blend of need and narcissism: “The best things in life are free. The second best are very, very expensive.” Love, friendship, sunsets-these are priceless. But survival instinct? Free. Surviving in style? That’s a Visa transaction.

Chanel forgot to mention the corollary: “The third-best things are on sale, the fourth-best are in landfills, and the fifth-best will strangle you with their laces during the riot.”

It’s funny how irrational our consumer logic becomes under pressure. It’s funny, absurd and sad just like capitalism, which, like bad footwear, narrows your choices until “dignity” means choosing which blisters to ignore.

So when you buy your three pairs, ask: are these for walking, or for believing? The escalator is broken. The shoe rack weeps. The only upward mobility left is the kind you can outrun your demons in. Choose accordingly.

A Warning About Borrowed Footwear

You need to have your own, three, distinct pairs of shoes. Because the last thing you’d want is to put yourself in someone else’s shoes. Especially someone who owns a single, old, holed pair. That is a shortcut to bad decisions, and limpy regrets.

This is the paradox of preparedness: by curating your own trio, you reject the passive suffering of those who borrow, scavenge, or make do.

Philosophers from Kierkegaard to Camus agreed that authenticity means choosing your own path. But none of them mentioned the shoe bites you’ll get if that path is paved with someone else’s ill-fitting hand-me-downs.

And in case Elon Musk decides to drag you to Mars, at least mog the aliens with your stylish kicks. The least you can do as a surviving human is flex on extraterrestrials.

The Final Plea

And so, brothers in existential footwear, what if civilization decides to collapse on itself tomorrow?

The government, distracted by tax fraud and Twitter, won’t warn you. The news anchors will be too busy debating if pineapple belongs on pizza to tell you that society is on its last legs. And suddenly, you’ll find yourself in a world where roads are cracked, WiFi is extinct, and the only currency is canned beans.

So now, take my advice, and before next Tuesday, do yourself a favor and buy three pairs of shoes. Not because you’re materialistic, but because, in the end, the difference between survival and regret might just be a well-timed purchase from the clearance section.

When you will be watching the last Twitter server blink out, you’ll understand what Plato really meant when he said “Our need will be the real creator” and your need, dear reader, is three damn pairs of shoes.

Because in the end, as the Buddha nearly said while shopping at Adidas: “Pain is inevitable — blisters are optional.” Choose wisely.

If you remain enough of a lunatic to argue that the world won’t end, well then you’ve got yourself a wonderful wardrobe and a lifetime to spend flaunting your newly bought shoes on dates that will never end happily.

And well, if the world does end, at least you will die with your laces tied.