It's All About The Shoes....

Well, last night was the engagement party for the wedding I’m in. It was quite impressive. The condo it was in was on Lake Shore Drive in the Gold Coast (way ritzy for those of you not from Chicago). And it was the condo where the owners entertain. The condo they live in is two floors below this one. Egads! Gorgeous, but not my world.

The condo was filled (and I do mean filled) with body art and jewelry from the 18th century. The groom’s mom apparently used to visit her friend’s apartment and try on the headdresses and tiaras and parade around the apartment. Until she realized that there were multiple museums vying for pieces of the collection.

Ok, last comment on the apartment, then I’ll tell my sad story.

The woman who owns the apartment is also a photographer by avocation. There were gorgeous pictures she’d taken located around the apartment. A baby leopard in a tree, poignant tribal ceremonies, a dead ostrich’s half eaten head…. Wait, what? Yep, that was one of the photos. It probably wouldn’t have been one I would have been driven to take. The other unique one that stuck out was the penis. It was mostly unrecognizable, as it had rings around it (picture African women lengthening their necks) and then a red cloth laid over it like a table runner. The head was the only part that was recognizable. But once people noticed it, it caused some conversation, needless to say.

Some of our mutual friends were also at the engagement party, not surprisingly. Now that I’m in the suburbs, I don’t get a chance to see many of them that frequently. One of them happens to be very into running and cycling. In our conversation, the fact that I’ve started running came up.

Me: Yep, I’m doing the Couch to 5K program.
Her: That’s great! How’s it going for you.
Me: Pretty well, actually. It’s not nearly as bad as I thought it would be. The worst part is that I can feel my calves tighten up, which isn’t fun.
Her: Hmm. What kind of shoes are you running in?
Me: Ummmm, my shoes.
Her: Well, what kind of running shoes are they? Are they supportive or (granted, she lost me at this point, so I can’t accurately repeat it) …?
Me: Ummm, I don’t know.
Her: Well, do you have high arches or more flat feet?
Me: Really high arches until I stand up, then they fall.
Her: Oh, you definitely need ones with (ok, it sort of turned into blah blah blah to me here)
Me: Oh. Ok.
Her: Well, what brand of shoes are they?
Me: (thinking and trying to picture the shoes) Reebok, maybe?
Her: Maybe? Well, how did you choose them?
Me: They were cute. And comfortable when I put them on.
Her: (hysterical laughter for about 2 minutes) Oh, girl! You need new shoes. How old are your shoes anyway?
Me: Mmmm. Probably seven or eight years, I guess.
Her: (more hysterical laughter) You’re serious, aren’t you? You need new shoes!
Me: Well, I was going to get some when I got more into running.
Her: You’ll get new shoes when you get injured?
Me: Huh?
Her: Never mind. I’ll send you an email with some suggestions of shoes to look into. Do you know where there’s a good specialty store by you?
Me: Uhhhhh…
Her: (more hysterical laughter) Wait until I tell my running buddies about you!
Me: Yeah… thanks. I’ll look for the email.

Apparently, I do need new shoes. And I’ll go buy some. Sometime this week. Maybe. But come on. Think about when you were a kid. Don’t you remember getting really into something and your parents buying you all the new and expensive equipment for it and then giving it up two weeks later? Well, I didn’t want to do that… but I think maybe it’s time. At least according to my friend. If she’s stopped laughing yet. I haven’t gotten the email yet, so maybe she still hasn’t.

So does this mean I'm not a real runner yet?