I haven’t had new tennis shoes in three years. I wore mine to play golf in this week, because I also don’t have golf shoes. After traipsing around the wet course, they smelled like damp, sour dog. I tossed them in the washing machine – when I got them out, they smelled like damp, sour dog with a cascade of Cheer on top.
When I run, it’s like I’m standing on hard French toast; the bones in my knees rubbing together, cartilageless.
We live off Ridge Road, that’s where I jog. The Meredith College coeds wiz by me each fall, their neon Nikes smokin’.
“Hey, hey. Yea you – hotty! The one with the pink jog bra and green sneakers - these tennis shoes are three years old. That’s why you passed me! Oh, and my walkmans not working either – I run slower without my tunes.”
My girls, on the other hand, all have nice new shoes for school. As long as I can remember, they’ve always worn Nikes. I also remember them being around $40.
This year, we walked into the Kids’ Footlocker and picked out a couple of pairs, one for Stephanie, one for Michelle. I didn’t even notice the price, assuming they’d be around the same as previous years. When we got to the register, cha-ching! “That’ll be $148.00.”
“Say what? Last year it was less than $100 for two. What’s up? Nike move their plant to the US or something?”
“Well, both of your daughters are now a size 5. That’s an adult size.”
“But this is a kids’ store.”
“Well, we sell adult sizes too.”
“And charge adult prices. Can you shove them in a 4? Stephanie, Michelle, act like Anastasia and Drizella. They’re bringing out smaller shoes. Cram that foot it!”
Geeze. Pretty soon no more child menus either. And just think. At one time I wanted four.
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