I hate shopping, except for tires and mortgage

I hate buying new shoes.

My feet slip comfortably into the indentations they’ve formed in my old shoes like a nice hug. My old shoes form comfortably to my feet. Unfortunately, they also form to the ground and the ground and my toes are starting to kiss when I’m not looking.

My old shoes are comfortable, but the leather is so worn they won’t hold a shine anymore. The seams are popping, the heels are peeling and the soles have holes.

But I hate to buy new shoes because I never know about the fit. They’re stiff, but will they loosen eventually and conform to my feet? Although they’re the right size by the chart, they feel tight. Will they loosen up or do I need to go up a size?

I don’t like to buy new shirts, either. I can’t just get a “medium” because the sleeves are too short. I can get fitted shirts with a sleeve length that works, but I don’t wear “dress” shirts much anymore.

I hate to grocery shop because I don’t know where anything is. I could spend two hours in the grocery picking up half a basket full of food I need – and filling the rest with food that triggers my visual and olfactory nerves.

My wife is so efficient with her list she could make the same trip, minus the bad things I tend to toss into the cart, in 15 minutes.

The simple truth is I hate shopping period. I don’t want the fridge to empty, or my underwear to get holes in them. I don’t want to stand in front of the Red Box and try to pick out a movie that will satisfy everyone.

I don’t want to have to pick out the roses for Valentine’s Day.

But there are two things I don’t mind paying for: my mortgage, and tires.

There is something satisfying about providing my family’s cave of safety, the abode alamode, the harbor of peace and haven of labor. In many modes and varieties, it’s where we raised the kids, where we come home each night.

I help in an overflow homeless shelter and the women who sleep there wake in the morning not always certain where they’re going to spend that night…or if they’re going to have a safe, dry, warm place to lay their heads.

My home anchors me in the world. I have a place, an address. I belong. When the snow falls outside, I can watch it through the window while sipping hot chocolate. I don’t have to wade through it to find a spot under a bridge, over a grate or in a doorway for shelter.

When the kids come to see us, when the grandkids come to Nana and Papa’s house…this is where they come. When they think of us, their visual is this house, these bricks, the backyard where we throw the ball, the garden boxes at the side, the deck where Papa grills the burgers. I keep my bike in the garage here.

I slide under the covers in a bed in this place, and God willing, I’ll do the same thing tomorrow and every tomorrow I have.

This is my home and I’m glad to pay the mortgage on it.

Tires aren’t quite so romantic, but I get a warm glow when I think of how they keep me from danger. Think of it. You’re racing 70-80 miles an hour down a highway littered with debris and broken asphalt, massive trucks close enough to touch, crazy drivers weaving in an out, curves that test your grip, wet weather, even snow. What is the thin black line keeping you from careening into a ditch, wrapping yourself around a tree or flipping end over end like a stunt car driver in a Marvel flick?

Your tires.

Years ago we made an extended trip from Nashville, to Wisconsin to drop the kids off and on to Pennsylvania for a meeting. Hours on the road, high speeds, mountains and summer heat.

I pulled the car into the driveway, glad to be safely home. Unloading it, I looked at the tires…so bald the steel belts were showing. That morning I drove the car 70 miles an hour down the interstate. That afternoon I was afraid to drive it 25 miles an hour to the tire store.

Ever since that day, I’ve been very conscious of my tires, maybe even replacing them sooner than required. But the peace of mind knowing they can roll over a stone in the road, or a piece of glass or handle a rain slick curve is worth the nominal price.

Someone told me once don’t be afraid to spend money for a good bed and a good pair of shoes because you spend your whole life in one or the other.

I’m saying don’t feel bad about your house payment or rent, and keeping good “shoes” on your car. They’re good investments.

0070: A License to Drive

I recently had reason to take two cab rides in New York City. Without prompting, both drivers complained about Uber, the world’s largest taxi company, which employs no drivers and owns no cars.

My Yellow Cab drivers pronounced Uber like they were trying to expel a bone caught in their throats – “OOOBer.” They said it with disgust and disdain, mixed with a dose of self-righteousness and just a smidgeon of fear.

Uber and its primary competitor Lyft have not just upset the urban individual rider transportation system; they have turned it on its head.

Pick any iconic movie scene in Manhattan, whether the actor is fleeing a lover or racing to meet one, he or she steps into the street, raises an arm or whistles sharply and a taxi slides up to the curb. It’s always a boldly colored Yellow Cab, usually with a surly driver in a hurry. Taxis go with city streets like pretty fish go with Koi Ponds. 

Not just anyone can run a taxi in our major cities. Taxis are business and municipalities issue licenses for them to operate. Those licenses are restricted in number to keep their value high and to limit – in New York City’s case – the number of cabs to about 15,000.

Potential owners buy the license at the occasional auction. The high bidder receives a medallion to display on the cab as proof he is operating legally. At its peak in 2013 the price of a two-medallion license reached $2.5 million, seven times the $350,000 it fetched in 2004.

Much like homeowners were encouraged to do during high inflation, many cab drivers borrowed against the increased equity of their medallion to buy a house or a boat, send the kids to college, enjoy some vacations.

A year later, the value dropped 25 percent.

Today, my drivers told me, an individual medallion for an owner operator, which cost as much as $1.3 million, could be had for $350,000 – if the city, which issues the medallions, and the bank, which loans money to buy the medallions – would allow it.

They won’t because of the huge losses that would involve.

In the meantime, Uber and Lyft, which are not required to have medallions or to be licensed because, hey, they don’t own any cars or employ any drivers, are tapping the sap from Yellow Cab drivers’ tree of life.

So these independent businessmen, who drive their storefront for 12 or 14 hours a day through congested Manhattan streets, are worried. They are carrying fewer than half of the passengers they carried just a few years ago.

In the meantime they see men and women on street corners, looking furtively about, glancing back at their smart phones, trying to talk their Uber drivers to their location. One of my drivers said he was worried for those potential passengers’ safety, because while they are concentrating on their phones, they’re not paying attention to potential purse-snatchers around them.

The fact is the world has changed dramatically for taxi drivers. An entirely new system of individual transportation is disrupting a business that just three years ago looked rock solid, with a stable future.

When the drivers, in frustration, asked, “Why do people call an OOBer,” I offered a simple observation: Price. An Uber rider attending the same conference as me paid half of what my Yellow Cab ride cost. The price is arranged before pickup, and that’s the cost.

When my Yellow Cab was stuck in traffic, the meter kept ticking.

Other disruptive technologies will appear in our near future.

I asked a riding buddy who drives for UPS if Sunday delivery by the US Postal Service is disrupting his income. “No,” he said. “With Amazon Prime, there are plenty of packages for everybody to deliver.”

Then he said the real fear of package delivery services is if Jeff Bezos, head of Amazon, starts his own delivery system. That would leave them all shaking in their boots.

Maybe that’s an opportunity for those of you in the boot manufacturing industry.