I bought some ugly shoes yesterday.
No, they are not “the real me.” I did not buy them because I wanted to get in touch with my non-vain, shoe-hating side. I bought them because they fit, they were on sale and because they are my ticket to freedom and happiness.
I have written before about my relationship with running. (Running for leisure, not to escape. No, really.)
Recap: The month before I became pregnant with Trombone, I bought new running shoes. Lovely, expensive, good quality running shoes. I was living downtown and I decided I should get back to running. All that smooth pavement, seawalls, etc.
They don’t fit anymore. They were size 10s and I am now a full-on size 11. I shrugged after I tried them on – lots of my shoes don’t fit anymore – and put them in the bag of Things I Might Sell Someday If I Get Around To It.
Then the sunshine and the warm temperatures started. Out for walks I am seeing people jogging, having pleasant times of it. I am yearning like Sarah McLachlan. But then I think: sure, and when am I going to work this in? An hour three times a week? At 7, when Fresco is in bed (and 2 hours before he wakes up again, usually) and Trombone and SA are upstairs getting prepped for bed, I have it in me to do three of the following things:
– read the Internet
– drink wine
– watch TV
– go to bed.
Only three. I rarely try to do four of those things, I know I would injure myself. I don’t see where exercise fits in there.
I mean, I would like to make it fit. I just don’t have high hopes. “Maybe in a few weeks,” I have been saying to myself, “maybe in the summer, when it is light outside until 9. Maybe when the baby sleeps all night or sleeps in till 7 am. And anyway, I don’t have any running shoes.” Yeah. So there. Because I totes HATE shoe shopping.
Yesterday I had an hour off in the afternoon. SA sent me out of the house and I went grocery shopping and then I was near a Running Room. I convinced myself not to go into the Running Room and look at shoes. Then I drove across the highway intending to go in to Winners and there was a store called The Shoe Company. I went in there instead and bought myself a pair of running shoes.
“Now what the hell are you going to do with these?” I scolded myself all the way home. The shoes were on clearance; size 11 shoes with pink and silver trim often are. They are pretty much the ugliest shoes I have ever owned, including the Keds with multicolour stripes I had when I was in grade 8 that someone said looked like they had been vomited upon. Of course they are not for a fashion show (see how I slipped that in? It’s like I am the mom of a teenager already!); they are very comfortable and supportive and I remember enough about what kind of shoe I need for running that I know they will be great for the kind of running I do.
I’m an overpronator, in case you are curious.
I came home. Trombone tried the shoes on and was delighted.
“I don’t know when I’ll use them,” I said to SA, “maybe later in the spring. Who knows. But I’m pretty sure my feet won’t get any bigger.”
“Mmm hmm,” he said, “shoes shoes shoes beer.”
I put them on the shelf. Looked longingly at them while I cooked dinner. “Oh impossible dream, I will continue to dream thee,” I thought poetically, stirring my cheese sauce.
A couple of hours later, nursing the baby, I remembered something. Something IMPORTANT and DECISION-AFFIRMING, something worthy of ALL CAPS. Earlier in the day, SA had run into the man who lives next door to us. The people next door have sold their house and the people who are moving in? Have a teenage daughter who babysits.
Oh hell yes. Just call me the Pink & Silver Bullet.