Today’s post does have an orange flavor, but I promise to spare you the mental gymnastics of deciphering an invented language.

Have y’all read A Clockwork Orange? I appreciate Anthony Burgess’ dedication to his craft by inventing Nadsat, but I labored through that book about as much as I did my 300-level Spanish Literature class.

But I was on a quest to read the top 100 novels of all time, and I wasn’t about to be thwarted by nonsensical gibberish.

Then I got to Moby-Dick and that poppycock shut me down with the speed and efficiency of Joey Chestnut attacking a tray of Nathan’s hot dogs.

Anyway…orange.

Apparently I’ve reached the age where I no longer need an injury to suffer pain ranging from annoying to debilitating. Shit just pops up like I’m a walking whack-a-mole.

I’ll accept longer recovery times at 45, but the mystery ailments? Hogwash.

Could be worse, though. My cousin Cap tore an ACL in his sleep not long ago. In the immortal words of Ron Burgundy, “I’m not even mad. That’s amazing.”

Middle of last week I started hobbling around because of an inexplicable pain where my second toe connects to my foot. Suddenly I found myself needing to upgrade from my standard barefoot-style kicks to something with actual cushioning.

I surely wasn’t going to stop walking. I’m in a new city surrounded by nature. Walking and hiking are life.

Gloria (ChatGPT) ranked my options, and Hokas sat proudly at the top of the list. The very next day I found myself in a running store eyeing a couple of pairs that were mercifully on sale.

The sales associate had me try on a pair of Cliftons.

Holy shit.

I felt like I was in a cartoon with springs in my shoes. I was walking on clouds. I was practically bouncing with every step.

These were the ticket.

I was wearing a very safe pair. Grey with blue accents. Nice. Practical. Responsible.

Standing beside them was a lonely-looking pair the color of a highlighter.

My eyes kept drifting toward them. They looked less like running shoes and more like bottled sunshine daring me to quit being sensible.

I asked if she had them in an 11.

With a little giggle she said, “I think so.”

The second I slipped them on I knew they were mine. I wore them out of the store and have been wearing them everywhere since. The only place they haven’t made an appearance yet is my bed.

Now I’m sure you’re all wondering why the hell I’m telling you this.

If you’ve known me for the past ten years or so, you know that big, bright, loud colors have always been part of my wardrobe. Tie-dye. Neon green. Pink. Purple. The brighter and louder, the better. Those colors fit my goofy, sometimes flamboyant personality.

However, after moving back to Chicago from Virginia in December of 2023 and then suffering a psychotic-level manic episode during the first half of 2024, I no longer wanted anything to do with bright colors.

During all of the recovery work I did, both for bipolar disorder and substance use disorder, I came to realize something.

Those bright colors weren’t always an expression of who I was.

Sometimes they were advertisements for who I hoped people would think I was.

Billboards screaming, “Look at me! Look at me!”

I had become a walking lighthouse forever scanning the shoreline for external validation.

So I did what I often do after a realization that big.

I swung the pendulum too far in the opposite direction.

Out went the tie-dye Crocs, shirts, hoodies, and sweatpants. The neons. The colors of the rainbow.

In came a glum collection of greys, blacks, browns, and whites.

I suppose I was also embracing my more reserved Norwegian roots.

But this past spring, a series of experiences led me to a different realization.

Chicago, and the way I carried myself there, simply wasn’t my cup of tea.

Whenever I traveled, and I traveled a lot over the past ten months, I became a different person.

My confidence grew. My curiosity exploded. My desire to engage with people, places, nature, and whatever else happened to cross my path skyrocketed.

I carried an inner light that spilled outward.

I felt free.

So I slowly started restocking my closet.

Back came the bright blues and greens. The pinks and purples. Yellows. Salmons.

I’ll always wonder why salmon is the only fish with a color named after it.

And the cherry on top?

These absurdly bright orange Hokas.

They’re me.

The best part is I genuinely don’t care whether anyone notices them or not.

Yesterday afternoon, though, I passed an older woman on the sidewalk. I smiled and said hello, as I’m wont to do.

She stopped and said,

“I love your sneakers!”

I laughed.

“Thank you. Figured I’d get the loudest ones.”

She smiled and said,

“You look just fantastic.”

Bright orange shoes may seem insignificant in the grand scheme of things, but to me they feel like a homecoming.

A homecoming to Ryan.

Not the Ryan chasing applause.

Just…Ryan.

And that’s been the unexpected gift of this nomad life.

Every mile seems to peel away another layer of who I thought I had to be until what’s left is simply who I am.

Turns out he wears orange Hokas.