The Bloody Shoe Lace

Could also be titled:  Ode to My Nikes

But the word bloody is so much more interesting.

So we are at the shoe store.  Tra la-la la-la.  Checking out running shoes for me.  I finally find a shoe I like that has my size and try it on.

First I put on my sporty socks and I notice a little red spot on one.  "Hmm.  What's that?"  Must be fuzz.  I put it on.  Then I put on the shoe auditioning to become my new workout partner for the next fourteen years.

Cute, right?

 But what is that?!

What is that red all over the shoe lace?

Ah!

There's red all over my hand.

And on my shin.

And on my pants.

My detective skills led me to find a gash in my pinky finger.

Right on the hinge.
Blood pooling.

And smearing.

Smeared.

How did I cut my finger?

I don't know.

But now I have bloodied the lace of these shoes.

Great.

What would you do?

You would sheepishly go find your husband and tell him of your misfortune.

Then you buy the shoes.

I couldn't possibly just put them back in the box and reshelve them.

How gross to try on a pair of shoes and discover someone else's pinky blood on the laces.

But this is a big decision.

I haven't bought running shoes in fourteen years.

Oh man.

You can see a bit of the blood there.

It seems to have soaked in a bit.

So these shoes win.

First pair that I tried on.

Welcome to life on my closet floor.

Running shoes, meet dancing shoes, flip flops, dress boots, and clogs.

Oh, you know what they're called?

Marathon 10.

As if I am going to wear them in a marathon.

Humorous, humorous shoes.

I am wearing them around the house tonight.

Tag still intact.

Getting a good feel for each other.

I'm one of those hesistant shoppers.

I make a purchase, then keep the tags on a few days.

Just to make sure.

We've been married ten years, Paul and I,

and he still hasn't caught on to this.

He likes to cut the tags off as soon as we get home

and put the item right in its new place.

Even my things.

Noooooooo

Let me do it.

When I'm ready.

So I should go ahead and cut the tag considering the story above and the whole reason why I bought this pair.  Just give a minute.  Maybe in the morning.

Good-bye,

dear Nikes

that I bought in Rocklin

in 1996

with my dad.

 Slick-bottomed,

paint-speckled,

torn and stained.

Comfy.

That's what they are.

My good friends.

Farewell.