That One Day I Talked to My Shoes

I finally found the time to run out into the world and buy myself a new pair of running shoes.  Not walking shoes or trainers, but straight up running shoes.  Why? Because I hope to someday not be so fat that I no longer have the capability of keeping up with my ten year old child.  Someone out there might be thinking, “A new pair of running shoes?” as if they couldn’t possibly picture me doing anything more athletic than walking my dog (slowly) around the block and I, quite honestly, couldn’t blame them for thinking that.  I don’t exactly live my life in the way one would expect of someone that would be capable of running at least ten minutes without passing out.  You’ll just have to accept my word that I, indeed, run once in a while—enough, in fact, to warrant having to go out and buy yet another pair of running shoes.

When I went out to do my shoe shopping, I didn’t go out into the world with the idea of making friends with my shoes, or even caring about them that much.  I just knew that there was no way I was going to make another workout happen using the old ratty pair I had been using for months.  I entered the store on a mission and ended up leaving with a nice pair of Nike’s having spent less than forty dollars.  I was a freaking rock star.  I immediately threw the other shoes in the trash can just outside the front doors and rushed to put on my new beauties.  I was ready to embrace the rest of my day when I actually started to feel quite bad about how unceremoniously I had dumped my old feet protectors.  I mean, they got me through months of walking around the neighborhood in the snow, they helped me start getting in shape again (first through the walking and then into the running) and they kept me standing through a marathon vacation through most of southern California’s theme parks.  How could I be so cruel as to just throw them out?

Not at all concerned with the fact that I was having an internal meltdown over the feelings of two shoes, I was extremely aware that going back to fish both of them out of the trash can would be just this short of crazy.  I reluctantly walked away from the garbage and made my way back to my car.  I must have been completely immersed in my guilt over shoe abandonment because I somehow managed to drag my gorgeous new shoes through a huge oil stain in the parking lot. I froze to the spot, which was extremely unfortunate since I was still standing in the freaking oil. Damnit! I rushed over to the small divider I was parked next to and started walking back and forth dragging my feet in the grass in hopes of minimizing the damage.  Of course (with me being me and all), I managed to, yes, get off some of the oil, but then immediately kick a piece of petrified dog poop. I swear, this shit (literally) happens to me all of the time. I was ruining my new shoes and I knew they just had to be pissed about it.

See, I have this really interesting issue with personification in my life.  I give human attributes to almost every freaking thing I come into contact with.  I personally blame this phenomena on watching Beauty and the Beast a million times when I was a kid, and letting it convince me that my dresser could be a fabulous lifelong companion!  Or the radio commercials for California Avocados that have talking fruit telling consumers how their biggest wish is to be in someone’s Cobb salad. However, it could just be the result of me being a natural odd duck and feeling the need to complicate my life with whatever shit I can possibly find.  I think it’s a toss up.  Anyway, I could actually feel my feet radiating the anger over my lack of respect for my new purchase.  It’s not like I meant to scuff up the shoes with various disgusting items—it’s just that that is what you get when you get purchased by someone like me.  It’s the luck of the draw, shoes…the luck of the draw.

I got into the car, absolutely livid with myself, and I started to talk to my shoes.  No shit.  I apologized for not looking where I was going.  I apologized for making things worse.  I apologized that I was the one that bought them and that they probably would have been better off being purchased by a person that would run with them in a sealed room with no visible dirt.  As I write this down I am just now realizing that I was only talking to myself and my disappointment in not taking better care of such a new purchase, but at the time I wasn’t thinking quite so rationally.  Duh! Am I right?!  When I was done with my apology/diatribe I waited in silence—waited for some kind of absolution from objects that were essentially invented to keep my bare feet from walking through oil and dog shit.  You’ll probably be surprised to know that they didn’t talk back.  Well, fuck them.

I drove off to spend a lovely time with my family and within twenty seconds I couldn’t give a good God damn about the shoes anymore.  I got over it awfully quickly for a person that was on the edge of her sanity a mere minute before.  Makes me wonder if I do that with real people with real feelings.  I don’t think I’m going to like the answer too much if I keep going down that road so I’ll just stick with my stories about my inappropriate? Nonsensical? Ridiculous? issues with stuff.  Because I know it’s ridiculous behavior—I just can’t seem to help it.  Talking to my shoes is truly just the tip of the iceberg.  How about these beauties?

I talk to Ziploc bags when I’m trying to cram something too large for their size into them.  Especially when I’m trying to put something like a pound of ground beef into a sandwich bag instead of a quart sized bag.  I cheer them on and tell them that they can do it—they’re Ziploc!  Don’t tell me you can’t stretch just a little more…

Whenever I have a party going on and there’s a stack of paper plates that has dwindled down to one or two, I always have to make sure that the new plates I put out to replenish go under the older plates.  They’re so damned close to being used—I don’t want to make them have to stay in line again.

If I find a stuffed animal (of which there are dozens of in my house) crammed against a wall or underneath a pillow/blanket/anywhere else a freaking doll might get crammed, I have to take a second to pull them out, give them a kiss on the head/nose/wing/whatever and then put them down somewhere nice and safe with plenty of air for them to breathe.

I genuinely feel remorse when I have to throw out food that has gotten too old.  I tried to eat you, California Avocado, really I did, but I just wasn’t in the mood for guacamole this week and then I accidentally placed you behind the tub of butter.  I’m sorry you never mad it onto a Cobb salad!  Waaaah!

My car is my baby (and quite frankly, if I do anything to hurt that thing my hubby will blow his own gasket) so I have a set level of volume for music so that I don’t hurt it’s ears (uh, I mean, speakers).

Getting dressed in the morning is fairly difficult because I can feel all of my shirts pressing towards me to be chosen as the one to get stained and dirty at the library that day.  (Fun fact: I rummage through all of the shirts hanging up just to make them think they have a chance—but I already know what I’m picking.)

If I happen to have different brands of soap or shampoo in my shower I have to alternate which one I use each day so that neither brand feels neglected.  Okay, now this one is just silly. Ha!

I’ve a little bit of a problem with spiders—doesn’t matter what kind, I just don’t really like them.  I used to not like them so much that I would kill them automatically, without taking a second to implement a much more democratic approach.  But then I started working with a co-worker who basically shamed me into sparing the poor creatures.  Now, if I see a spider I’ll just look it straight in the eyes and say, “If you leave me alone, I’ll leave you alone.” I think they get the drift.  At least I think so.  Who know what the hell they’re doing to me when I’m asleep.

Finally, sometimes I get frustrated with myself for not using certain colors from my large package of crayons.  I try not to have favorites, but it’s hard—blue is too awesome.  Anyway, I sometimes will sit down with my coloring books (yes, I have them—and they’re not ALL adult) and just color a sheet with the colors I hate.  All about inclusion, you know?

I think it’s starting to get pretty obvious that I have some kind of internal issue with neglect and fairness, which isn’t really all that of a big surprise to me.  I just never looked at my tendencies to this degree before.  If I were to analyze myself I would probably come to the conclusion that I just want everyone to like me.  Even the avocados.  But, I don’t think that anyone has to worry about me to the point where I have to start getting specialized medical care or anything.  That will just have to wait until my shoes actually do talk back. (Cause I kinda think they’re still pissed.)

©DRB 2016


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