Last night I was surprised to find my heel rubbing against the hard plastic of my beloved running sneakers. It seems my heel has finally made it’s way through all of the cushioning and has met the hard plastic structure, the bones if you will, of my shoe. I really shouldn’t have been surprised, after all I’ve held on to this pair for at least the last two and a half years. They’ve seen me through my pregnancy (in fact at one point they were they only pair of shoes I could wear) and right on back into my running bliss post-babies. The plastic rubbing on my skin last night hurt and it made me get a small blister, but it also made me start thinking about how much I liked this particular pair of shoes and of all the things I would say to them, if only they understood.
To My Shoes:
Is this it? Is this where we end? My dear shoes, Ascics 1120, you’ve been such a great friend.
You’ve been my trusted pal from Canada’s beautiful coast to coast! That’s something not many other sneakers could boast.
We’ve been from Signal Hill, Newfoundland, to North Vancouver, BC. Okay, so we took a plane, but we can keep that between you and me.
Did you know you were a deal – and that for the price of one I got two? But that for running, over the pink ones, I chose you?
And if to your successors you could speak, what would you tell them, what words would you squeak?
Oh sneakers of mine, would you tell how I whine?
when the running gets tough and I think I’ve not got enough.
Would you tell of how I wish I could run with both my eyes shut – except that I’m sure I’d fall flat on my butt.
Or would you tell of how I love the feel of the wind in my hair, and how running with my kids makes others just stare?
Would you tell of the way we make friends with the trees, and laugh with the clouds as they move in the breeze.
Would you admit that you cried when I put you up on a shelf, and tell how I kept barefoot running all to myself?
Would you laugh or would you sigh with a jealous tear in your eye,
when my feet were too fat, my belly to wide, and we had to loosen your laces so my feet could still fit inside?
Well my sneakers if you’ve no words to share, would you at least contribute some money to help me buy my next pair?
No? Maybe not? I suppose I’ve taken all that you’ve got.
Well I guess that’s just fine, and so for just one more time,
we’ll pack on the gauze, slap on the mole skin, head out my back door and run once again.