Fiddledeedee

The last time I bought a pair of sneakers was just after Emme was born.

Nine years ago.

So, those old shoes have seen more than any pair of sneakers ought to have been privy to.

I remember when I bought them, I balked at the price. I told Fiddledaddy and the nice man at the Reebok Outlet that I never pay more than $10.00 for a pair of shoes.

It’s not that I’m cheap.

Well.

I guess it is that I’m cheap. But Fiddledaddy and Mr. Reebok assured me that I would get good use out of them, what with all the training for the triathlon that I would likely be doing. You know, to lose those unwanted pregnancy pounds.

Yeah. That Triathlon would be called MOTHERHOOD.

I’d say that indeed, I’ve gotten my moneys worth out of those sneakers. Which can officially no longer be called Sneakers. Since very little sneaking is happening.

My comfortable old Reeboks have developed a rather audible SQUEAK that squawks every time I step on the right shoe. It sounds very much like I’m passing wind. Enough so that people are likely to turn and stare when I breeze by in a crowded store.

Which really doesn’t bother me anymore, but my children are horrified.

Time to get mama some new shoes. It’s not that I don’t enjoy embarrassing my children. Because I do. I’ve waited a long time, and endured much hardship to get to this point.

But the tread is completely gone off of the old faithful Squeakers, and I was afraid that I was going to end up on my backside, staring up at the ceiling of Wal•Mart.

On Sunday, after church, I took my girls out for lunch and shoe shopping. It was fair to say that I wasn’t going to get much help from the pimply faced shoe salesman in the black and white striped umpire shirt. After staring at 3 walls of shoes, I finally asked for help. “Uh, I dunno. Uh, do you run?”

“Only when being chased.”

Cue the crickets.

“Uh, well, I guess then that you need the training shoes.” At which point he pointed back to the running shoes.

Dude. Training shoes. Would that be sort of like training wheels? Training bra? Prepare me for the next step.

I thanked him. And went in search of my own sneakers.

Interestingly I learned that I am no longer a petite size 7 shoe. No. My feet have ballooned into a size 8 AND A HALF. That extra HALF is what really did me in.

I blame it all on 3 pregnancies and 2 bunions.

Nevertheless, I trotted away with some sweet New Balance Trainers. Now, I’m quiet as a mouse.

Clearly, I will be in need of new ways to embarrass my children in public.

Oh the possibilities. They are endless.