This morning I decided to be in the market for athletic shoes. (Would it look like I’m trying too hard if I said something like “This was no small feat!”?! I like to think that I’m cooler than that. Let’s shift focus a bit, shall we? It was one year ago tonight when Jeff and I found ourselves invited to attend a Bruce Springsteen sound check, and as if that wasn’t enough (We were the only “civilians” in the stadium! Seriously!), we got a personal tour of the backstage area, AND we went home that night with the handwritten set list. I’ve met some pretty amazing people through the Internet, Internet. I’ve been thinking about that show all day. Ah, Mr. Springsteen.)
Anyway, my main goal for the athletic shoe thing was to get something user-friendly and perhaps brown. These were pretty much exactly what I wanted. To me, those shoes say, “I’m a climber of mountains. I could run if I need to, but really, I’m just strolling down the road looking for a chai and some chili.” Perfection.
As I drove to the shoe store, I set Sparky up to play the overture from Selmasongs. It’s sort of my own personal Rocky theme, and it never fails to stir up my much needed Invincibility Vibe. Drama! French horns! I am Flo Jo! (It was one of the songs that played as our wedding guests entered the church. (I absolutely LOVE the build up to 2:24. It makes my lip quiver every time.)) When I entered the store, I headed straight for the New Balance display. Sadly, the perfect brown shoes were not available in my size, and a wicked step sister I am not.
I tried on over thirty pairs of shoes this morning, and in the end, feeling weary and very vincible, I settled for something that ended up being over twenty dollars cheaper than The Perfect Shoes.
I suppose you could say that they’re silver, but deep down we all know that they’re white (actually, they’re >>>WHITE<<< and partly pink, even), and not at all chummy. In fact, they’re very standoffish, and after wearing them all day? My feet feel as if I’ve jumped into a vat of chattering teeth. As I type these words to you, the shoes are sitting in the corner quoting Kafka (in German, of course. Jackasses.) and tossing lit matches at the cats. Earlier this afternoon I found them spitting and whispering nasty things about my butt.