For Christmas my sister gave me money to buy new sneakers. Mostly to stop my complaining and dropping broad, un-subtle hints about how much I wanted new exercise shoes rather than out of the goodness of her heart. Never underestimate the power of annoying your relatives around Christmastime.
So once I was back in Pasadena I went to the store and got myself some new kicks. They're bright and shiny white, not dingy and gray like my old pair, and the tread is nubby and raised, not slick and smooth like my old pair, and they look like little spaceships on my feet instead of like Fred Sanford's junkyard truck like my old pair.
And, just like when I got new sneakers back in elementary school, I can now run fast. Way fast. Super fast. Like I was The Flash or something.
Seriously. I went to work out wearing my new shoes and I got to the gym before I left the apartment. I got on the treadmill and I went so fast it burst into flames and fell to pieces. When I left for home I ran so fast the wind blew all the protein bars off the shelf. Seriously. It happened. Ask anybody.
I know when I'm in the gym all the people at the gym are looking at my new shoes, staring with envy, or avarice, or a little bit of both. But you can't have them, they're my new shoes. And I run faster with them on.
Thanks to my sister for feeding my delusion.
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