Fire in Your New Shoes

There are certain times (pretty much all of them) and certain people (mainly the ones I care about most) who I cannot fight with without crying. It's an uncontrollable reflex that I despise (and blame heredity for), because it undermines you in an argument.

Picture it - get raging mad, full of venom and frustration, and just when you get to the point where you're going to make your knockout argument, out pour the tears. 'Get back in there!' you scream at them. 'We're not even sad right now, we're just pissed, what are you doing?!' But there's no stopping the flood now - and the more that come out, the angrier you get about it. And the angrier you get... Well, you can see where this is going.

I fought with myself yesterday - my roughest opponent. And while no tears actually came out (I wouldn't let them) it was a close call.

Yesterday was new shoe purchase day and I found what I thought was "the shoe". Now don't assume I've been brainwashed by some jump-cut Nike commercial - I am aware that there is a limited amount of assistance that your equipment can offer before it's all on you. But on the flip side, little malfunctions can drive you nuts (like falling down pants - I now have leggings that pretty much go up to my armpits, senior-in-Florida style, but I am so much happier!), and eventually cause you pain if they're more serious.

Back to the shoes - they're a Nike Pegasus (maybe I was subliminally messaged by Nike after all) and boy was I ready to fly. My previous beloved running shoes were so old that I might as well have been running with a small slab of concrete strapped to each foot for cushioning.

When I got out on the road (leggings pulled up over my belly button as ever) the first few minutes felt like running on two tiny trampolines... The kangaroo heritage in my blood was activated. But it didn't last long before the rest of my body dragged my feet down off the trampolines like quicksand. My shins were still bitter about the time they'd suffered in the old shoes. The familiar stabbing in my side picked up in intensity until I felt Brutus was surely getting his final dig in.

I had tried all day to hydrate, I ate my potassium-rich banana, but no - I still had not appeased the running gods. And so, just as I was at my angriest and most frustrated, and wanted to chuck my water bottle at the heads of the cuddly couple blocking my path on the sidewalk, my tear ducts threatened to mutiny. Which made me angry enough that I refused to let them have their cry. And I drank more water instead of committing assault with the bottle.

Shoe day did have one notable success - like the cartoon penguins, I have happy feet. Now I just have to experiment and tweak until everything from the ankle up feels nearly as content.