shoegazer

Several days per week I pull something of a Lois Lane/Clark Kent transformation, making a mad dash home from work, navigating the obstacle course of furry animals, and shucking my adorable-yet-sky-high heels in favor of a sensible pair of running shoes. Then I dash back out.

A while ago I realized my sweatshop-sewn swooshes were no longer in acceptable form, so I sought out a new pair of running shoes.

I made my purchase from a shop near one of the MetroParks trails I frequent. I admit I was a bit wary at first--the last time I tried to support local commerce via the local cobble shop, I walked away with something more than new leather.

In a nutshell, the fellow who was helping me select footwear got way up in my personal space, invited me to partake in some celebratory Y2K-woo-hoo gunfire, and about a month later showed up in the police blotter of the local paper.

His crime? Being caught in the act of pilfering skivvies from the apartment of a college co-ed.
Apparently he felt something was missing from the collection of thousands stashed in his trunk.
But nay, he was not a selfish man. He wanted to share the joy of his stolen panties.
Accordingly, he hung out his virtual shingle in the form of a Web site.
This Web site featured pictures of himself. Dressed as a woman.
He was passing off the worn undergarments as his own.
And they were for sale.
Hooray for American enterprise!

For the most part, this shoe-shopping experience was much less eventful. The only trauma I experienced was the shame of having to purchase shoes one size larger than the normal size I wear, in order to accomodate my extra-long toes.

I've had the shoes for a little over a month now and they're great, save the one thing that has always irked me about women's athletic shoes...
They're white.
I mean, really white.
Like the blinding white of someone who needs to be placed on teeth bleaching probation.

Apparently I am not the only one who has been, ahem, blinded by the white.

Today I passed a fellow, who, after saying hello, looked away with a bit of a secretly amused grin.

I immediately became self-conscious.

Was it the shoes? Were they too white?

About a quarter of a mile later I passed a woman in a pink flowered track suit. I attempted to gauge her reaction. The first thing her eyes fell upon before flicking upward? My feet.

Ugh.

I've had the shoes for over a month now, have worn them in the rain, snow and mud. I figured they would have mellowed to at least a dingy cream by now.

Nope.

It's really not that big of a deal - they're comfortable and supportive and don't hurt. In this case, fashion is somewhat secondary to podiatric surgery.

But every time I pass a horde of cross-country members from the local high school, I half expect them to accost me and give my shoes a proper grade school-style stomping before continuing on their merry, sweaty way.