She's a Killer

Sometimes I accidentally destroy things like shoes, pans, Winnie the Pooh mugs, picture frames, and the hopes and dreams of little children. Ok, maybe the last one was an exaggeration, but sadly, the rest are not.

Today, I talked to the shoe shop guy fixing my boots and I listened to him, half amused and half slightly embarrassed, as he told me in a hushed whisper all of the things that were wrong with them.

"The zipper is obviously broken, and um, well the heels are in pretty bad shape...the soles will, um, also need to replaced as well. They, well, the boots have been pretty worn out. Lots of wear. Lots of it. Oh boy, there has been a whole bunch of wear and tear."

Alright, alright. They're shoes, ok? There is no need to pull out that voice of fear when we're talking about inanimate objects who cannot think or feel! And you know what? I walk a lot. I walk to work in the morning, to campus several times a day, past the duck pond at least 5 times, and I've only run a few half marathons in the boots, ok? Not that big of a deal. Perhaps my boots need to simply man up. I felt like I was getting a phone call from a concerned teacher calling to tell me that my kid has a bunch of scrapes, bruises, and a split lip and the principal was concerned for my child's safety. I'd like to publicly set the record straight: I am not abusing my boots. To the contrary, I love my boots very, very much and dare I say it? Sometimes love hurts.

When I go to pick up my boots on Friday, I fully intend to walk into the store proudly and without shame. I'll walk past all of the sales people shrieking in fear and shielding handfuls of boots in their arms and the shocked customers clutching their out-of-style Sketchers, all the way back to the emergency room, I mean, the repair shop. My boots just needed a little break, a little R&R, and then it's business as usual on Saturday. I love these boots and they love me back, I assure you. They do. Really.