Worker's Comp, here I come!

This morning I was scurrying around my room trying to get ready for work, running late because I decided it would be a great idea to go back to bed after my roommate dragged me for breakfast. So I get out of bed with forty minutes to spare--during which I must shower, get ready, and all that jazz.

I'm on the home stretch, I've got clothes on, my hair is as done as it's going to get, and I've touched my makeup bag, even if not the contents thereof, when I think: Shoes! Okay. . . (a) it's snowing; (b) I'm wearing blue and tan; (c) coat is gray; (d) bookbag is black; (e) necklace is brown leather, silver, and pearl. . . After performing the arduous calculations that only a true shoe fanatic can do mentally on short notice, I decided: Brown shoes it is!

But then. Glory of all glories. Awe-inspiring event comparable to none. Hallelujah chorus bursting forth from a light of supernova-proportions. (Science people, if you even tell me that supernovas don't really produce a lot of light or any such nonsense, not only am I going to ignore your obviously superior knowledge of astronomy, but I'm also going to morph into the playground bully who used to steal your pocket protectors and then stomp on them in mud puddles just to see the look of agony on your little nerdling face.)

I found a pair of shoes that I had forgotten I owned.






Just let it sink in for a second.




Don't rush it.



Do you feel the warmth of a cool breeze flirting with the oceanside on a perfect early summer day in Southern California; not quite hot enough to give you second degree burns; not quite cool enough to afflict you with an acute case of nippilus erectus? Do you feel it?





Basking in the joy of my discovery, I picked up the forgotten shoe, the abused child, the neglected orphan. I found his twin, and I reminisced about the day I found them. I was in New York City, wandering Chinatown with friends, when we came upon a little shop. Being a shoe fiend, I went to the back of the store and began browsing. I wasn't necessarily interested in anything, but then a little old man popped up out of nowhere (I swear it was like a whack-a-mole set-up in there so that he could just pop up through the floorboards whenever he thought he could pressure a windowshopper into making a purchase).

He asked me which shoes I liked, and, in a moment of panic because I realized I was about to purchase shoes I didn't necessarily want, I pointed to a pair that looked like it should belong to anyone but me (yes, that does include big burly lumberjacks and double amputees). They were brown and blue plaid with a brown leather strap and shark's-tooth-shaped thing. (I'm so discriptive, I know you're picturing them right now. If Google can't do anything with the way I worded that, then I know your brain sure as hell can't.)

Anyway. . . I found the shoes and I was overjoyed. They matched my outfit perfectly; they made the authoritative clicky noise when I walked on cement or tile; they were different in that bordering-on-grotesquely-unfashionable way. And they caused me to fall on my ass outside the Union this afternoon.

That's right. For some reason, shoe designers just don't think traction's all that important. And I have to agree. What happens in the event that someone wants to stare at the bottom of my shoes? Do I want them to see some trashy run-of-the-mill traction on there? Hells no. I want them to see something so smooth, shiny, and polished that they'll be lining up to watch my confidence crumble as I fall repeatedly on not-so-hidden patches of ice.