At Least They're Committed

I kick off my blue-gray 5-year-0ld Tiger Asics and delicately stuff my left foot into my new black and silver New Balance Fuses. The new shoes are a 7 and a bit too big, but the 6 1/2s they had there were a tad too small and bigger is better (no matter what men would like you to believe). I should qualify though: they’re new to me. I found them, as I do many of my shoes, at the thrift shop.

I love the thrift shop.

On occasion, someone will compliment me on my clothes and ask, “Is that a ‘blah?’” And I proudly say, “I have no fucking idea.” Seriously, what kind of person cares who made your clothes or how much you paid for them?

Back to the shoes. They’re a shot in the dark, really, but they should be better than my they-served-me-well-beat-to-shit Asics. I hate to admit it, but I might have to start investing in shoes that aren’t from ARC or Payless. That I have always walked, run, treadmilled and generally been active and healthy has not been enough to curb life’s debilitating decay and the slow, silent assassination by time.

The physical therapy for the bursitis in my hip(s) is going well, although I haven’t done it yet today. “Cross your bad leg in front of your good knee and lean your hips back and body forward.” Yeah, you figure that out. The roller is killer: “Lay on your side across the roller and let your weight push you down as you maneuver back and forth.” Ouch! Dammit! But it’s productive pain. It kind of feels good and don’t think for a moment I’m into S&M or anything, I’m not. I can handle pain is all. Especially when I know it’s going to make me better. I’m grateful this isn’t chronic.

As a side note, man, it’s a gorgeous day! And I’m not taking it for granted. I’m sitting in the shade on the porch and I’ve been here so long that the sparrows are no longer afraid of me and three of them are a couple feet away pecking tiny bugs from the brick or maybe sharpening their beaks (should I be worried?). My tree is two-thirds of the way green and if I end up having to cut the dead branches off, so be it. Hmmm. Hold that thought . . .

Oh, the title? That crossed my mind is all.