: the killer shoes :

shoeboxBelieve it or not, in the immediate aftermath of my bicycle accident I actually flirted with the idea of giving up biking and acting my age. Isn’t that hilarious? Picture me behaving like a grown-up. Pffft, as if. Cooler heads have since prevailed.

Hey, it’s not my fault I broke bones and punctured internal organs. I was minding my own business, careening wildly around a sharp corner and into a narrow tunnel. My stoopid shoes, meanwhile, were busy sending out some seriously bad juju. I didn’t see it or smell it, but I felt a really hostile aura. A couple socks could have conspired, too, I can’t be certain.

handlebarsLast summer, if you remember, I was sent flying over the handlebars and onto pavement. In traffic. I was wearing the exact same tennis shoes at the time; white Nikes with a silver swoosh.  Coincidences like that don’t just happen. Not in the real world. Frankly, I’m afraid to put them on my feet. Or get too close; they’ll trip me first chance they get. Well, forget that.

I wore them home from the hospital, but I’d no choice. They were the only shoes with me and having thchucksem on was totally unnerving. I kicked those bad boys off the second I got in the car. Hell, I’d toss ‘em in a dumpster if I didn’t fear a wicked backlash. These days I’m sporting the sweetest pair of navy blue Chuck Taylor’s ever. They’re so cute and playful, just a joy to have around.

The Nikes, by comparison, need an exorcist. I mean it, they’re devil shoes.

peekingcopyright © 2016 the whirly girl

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