The Olympics reminds me I used to love sneakers. I still do, but I used to, too.

Nike, Adidas, Chuck Taylors. I was a gym shoe junkie back in the day. Dad used to say, “Those clown shoes won’t help you jump higher.” But I didn’t care. Each new pair felt like a superpower.

Remember those Larry Bird Converse Weapons? I had a pair in ’86. They were garish and ridiculous, but man, did I feel like a baller. I was sure they’d help me sink threes from half-court. Spoiler alert: they didn’t.

I thought I was done with cool sneakers when I hit 50. My feet voted for comfort over style. But then Snoop Dogg, of all people, got me back in the game with his Skechers collab.

Gin and Juice Snoop. Blunt-smokin Snoop. Olympic darling and grandfather of three Snoop.

He’s concocted a mad scientist shoe, the One Take, tourquoise and orange and platformed like he was late for Soul Train.

I love them. I want to be buried in them.

Now my closet’s a timeline of my life. Old high-tops next to sensible lookalikes. From “I can dunk” to “I can funk” to “I just want to walk without pain.”

Funny how things change. As a kid, I wore sneakers to impress classmates. Now? I wear what feels good. My feet finally got their Ph.D. in Not Giving a Damn.

And yet.

Did I mention they were $100? Jordans should be so affordable. Sometimes, when I squint, the orange stripes resemble an outstretched Chicago Bull.

Wore my new kicks to the docs last week. Then to poker. And they’ve become my cycling clog.

Life’s weird like that. Sometimes you think you’ve outgrown a thing, but it turns out it’s just grown up with you.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​