Tender Loving Stuff
Haul Out Blvd.
Dear Running Shoes,
As sensible as you are, I am sorry to say that I could easily give you up. I didn’t need any more shoes, but I bought you anyway. How many more pairs of shoes can I wear before I die? How many more shoes will go out of style before I’m walking on clouds?
At the NYC airport my lineup was held up by a woman disputing luggage weight restrictions. Back in Toronto, another woman at the baggage carousel was waiting for her zipper-expanded suitcase, and whining about having paid $80 in excess weight charges. At the same time, fearing that she would be caught for spending over the weekend limit: the most common Canadian crime of smuggling shoes across the border. Who could spend a weekend in the Big Apple and return with less than $400 in purchases? Me.
I am sorry to dump all this on you. You are here and I’m used walking all over your expensive orthotic insoles. After years of podiatrist consultations about pigeon toes and malformed hipbones, now advertisers say that I should be walking naturally and running barefoot. Not quite bare: I will need to replace you with expensive plastic socks. Don’t start worrying yet. I am not really convinced. Running in sneakers on sidewalks as a teenager caused shin splints that still plague me, and my pigeon toes tripped me at the finish line on of the grade 10 relay race. I need your spacious interior for my orthotics, and I rely on your cushioned soles.
I know my relationship with abject objects such as yourself goes beyond my individual fetishistic perversions. I hope that I don’t betray your loyalty and the services you have rendered for me, as I dive in and examine the hold that major corporations’ products have on my hopes and dreams.
To produce you something else was lost, transformed, died or was never born. What would you have been if you’d had your choice, my lovely running shoes? I want you to know I appreciate your comfort and the bonds we have shared through our affiliation.