Ok, so I have this thing about New Balance shoes. Ok, and I’ve had a hectic few months now. Ok, and by the end of the day my brain is mush. Ok, and pretty pictures seduce me.
It was last Thursday, the first day of the basketball tournament—oh, sweet lord, I’m starting to relay time to you in relation to sporting events….dang it, Nick!—and I worked a ten-hour day. I was all by my lonesome that night, and found my hands caressing the pages of SHAPE magazine with the hungry mind of a stoner.
I love SHAPE. Love it. Imagine my delight when February’s issue was delivered to my home! Masterful! And then March!—it happened again! You’re not nearly wide-eyed enough at this double proclamation…perhaps I’ve left out the most supernatural part: I’ve never subscribed to this magazine. I’ve never paid for it. I mean I would, and gladly, but if it’s coming for free, why?
So there I am, leafing through a bootleg issue of SHAPE, nursing on my heel the biggest blister I’ve ever seen and the most painful I’ve ever conjured, and what do I see but the most beautiful sight these eyes have ever known…or, you know, close to:
Sore feet, pillowy brain, orange shoes…like another path was even open to me. I found an online NB retailer and ordered a pair, making certain to get the orange. There was something about that orange. It just made me happy. Mmmm…orange.
Some people get funny about ordering their athletic shoes without trying them on first, and I hear ya guys, I hear ya…but I’ve worn NBs for so long that I know my size. I know my width. I knew no fear. I let the drool drip unabated from the corner of my mouth, my face spellbound in the rapture of this shoe and the idea of shock absorption it romanced in my squishy little mind.
I received them the following Monday, smuggling them from my aunts’ view, slightly embarrassed by the mental wherewithal I lacked in the presence of that NB ad. I have been that much of a patsy in commercialism since Malibu Barbie…so, I mean, it’s been a decent 8 months now. I should be more worldly, less excitable. But, then I opened the outer box of the package, and found streams of hot, white light spotlighting from the crevices of the shoebox…and my breath caught. This was it. My heel still recovering from the most painful of all blisters, I let my hands fall to the package with cherishing hands.
I parted the tissue paper and took in the radiance of the orangest shoes I’ve ever owned. Embarrassment completely forgotten, I ran to my aunts with my shoes high in the air, showing them off, letting the light refract from their shimmery parts, letting the orange glow. Even Nick thought they were an okay-looking shoe.
Just when I thought I couldn’t be happier with my shoes, I ran with them. Like, I tied them so that they encased my feet? Yeah, well, after I did that, I ran. They’re like mini trampolines strapped to my feet! I feared a time or two that the ricochet of my foot to the treadmill belt would cause an altercation between my knee and forehead.
So yes, cheaply, I saw a picture of a shoe and then bought a pair in a round trip of about five minutes. I fell for a marketting ploy. Shamelessly. And I couldn’t be happier. And, I just wrote about a pair of shoes…my mind is a sad little thing. But, “pillowy”, that sounds cuter…pillowy.