Anastasia and Drizella

Anatasia

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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