Off On the Wrong Foot, So to Speak

It's the first day of 2015 and I'll soon start a running program with a group of teachers at my school.  I'm such a horrible runner that I figure I'll at least provide them with some comic relief.

Our running coach suggested that, over the holidays and before we officially get started, we buy a good pair of running shoes.  So, a couple of days after Christmas, I made myself roll out of bed, take a shower, and get dressed for the shoe hunting expedition.  

Like most days, I should have just stopped at getting dressed.

After putting on the most comfortable clothes I could find, I reached into my unlit closet, felt around for some tennis shoes, found them, slipped them on, and headed to a local store in Memphis known for fitting runners with just the right shoes.

Since I'm new to this whole running thing (other than a brief affair with it YEARS ago that left me with nothing but shin splints) I'm more than a little intimidated.  Let's face it.   I'm in my mid-forties with a husband, two boys under the age of 10, and a full-time teaching job.  I'm carrying about 15 extra pounds, and I'm not in the best shape of my life.  Walking into a store where every staff member runs multiple marathons a year is enough to me slink to the nearest restaurant and hide behind a bowl of chips and salsa and a very large margarita.  

After sitting in my car for a sweet forever, I mustered up all the courage I had and walked in.  I held my head up high, told myself that I'm going to be runner.  I belong here.  These will be my people, and I will be one of theirs.

A nice lady named Loralee greeted me and asked to help, so I explained why I was there and we set off to find the perfect pair of shoes.  I sat down and she said, "Well, let's see what you're already wearing."

That's when it happened.  She looked at my feet, stifled a chuckle, looked away, then looked at my feet again.

Gaining her composure, she asked, "Do you know that you're wearing different shoes?  And, look, they're not even made by the same manufacturer.  Do you have a little card on you with your name and address, just in case we need to help you get home?"

I suppose I would've been offended if it weren't for the fact that (a) I have no trouble laughing at myself and (b) sarcasm is my love language.  

We had a good laugh and by the time she'd brought out the first pair of shoes for me to try on, all the salespeople and the store owner had come by to meet the sad woman who can't match her shoes and clearly needs to replace the lightbulb in her closet.

I tried on shoe after shoe.  She watched me walk.  She watched me run.  She had the kindness not to laugh.  She said something about mild over-pronation in my left foot, and she used a couple of other words and phrases that meant nothing to me.  (Much like the idea of matching my shoes.)  Apparently, runners speak an odd second language.

I ended up buying the ugliest but most comfortable shoes I've ever put on.  And, yes, I wore them out of the store. 

Just because you start off on the wrong foot -- or in my case, in the wrong shoes --  doesn't mean you can't turn it around in the end.