Secretly, all adults wish they had velcro shoes, because, no more tying double knots to make sure your dumb laces don't come untied. Also, when you unfasten velcro shoes, it makes an overwhelmingly satisfying ripping sound, a sound that says to the world "I am tired of wearing my shoes, and now I am going to take a bath! And in the bath I will play with Tupperware containers and pretend they are submarines or, better still, makeshift rafts that Cubans use to get to Miami!" Also, dandelion fluff sticks to the velcro on velcro shoes, and when we pluck it off it reminds us of fuzzy, lovable things like hamsters and kittens and Pokemans. But instead of showing our love for velcro by liking it on Facebook and pinning it on Pinterest, we eschew it publicly while we adore it privately. If we all didn't care, there would be no more pretending. We would run through the fields of gold in our velcro shoes, laughing and singing Kool & the Gang songs as loud as we can. And afterward, we would pant as we licked Popsicles, not caring that the juice was dripping off our chins and onto our ties and power suits.
If we all didn't care, our shoes would say Dora on them. Because Dora embodies America: slighly pudgy and frequently annoying and speaking Spanglish with unwarranted exuberance. We wouldn't care if others said, "Oh, Dora is so stupid, and you're so stupid because you're wearing shoes that say Dora on them. No quiero Dora shoes, dummy loco." We'd just shrug and walk away thinking, "Man, I love Dora, and I love my Dora shoes." That's what Grace thinks, and that's why I like having her and her Dora shoes around. She reminds me to care a little less about what others think of my shoes. And she reminds me to snuggle a little more. And she reminds me to refuse to eat dinners I do not like. Thanks, Grace!