Big Foot

So I’ve decided to run the marathon. I have been running for the past 3 years, which in my book constitutes of hitting the treadmill or running paths for about 2 miles- twice or thrice a week. I was pretty full of myself, having never really run before (unless you count running to class). Of course, once I started training for the marathon I realized what a punk I am. Or, more specifically, a poser, loser, fake. Real runners are incredible, single-minded, determined, and can hold off enormous amounts of pain while trudging to the finish line. I perused Youtube videos of runners literally on all fours, puking and crawling their way to the end. Amazing and awe-inspiring. I’ll never be one of those.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3aF0nnmdfTA

Yet I remain undeterred. Which means that one of the first steps is to go to a running shoe store. It took me freaking 5 hours to get there of course, with the delapitaded antiquated transit system in this goddamn city. Anyways, once I got there, the saleslady spoke in calm tones, nodded a lot at what I said, chin in hand, and measured my feet with furrowed brows. She had me run in front of her and do lunges so that she could look at my gait and examine my ankles (which she prounounced as “wobbly”). I sat on the bench and she sat a bit lower, examining my feet, turning them this way and that way. It was feeling reeeeal good being catered to.

But then the conversation went something like this.

Lady: Right foot, please.

[NP stetches out her right foot grandly and feel like a princess.]

Lady: Left foot, please.

[NP switches feet regally.]

Lady: Hmmm.

[NP deigns to look down at Lady.]

Lady: What size shoes do you usually wear, m’am?
NP: Excuse me?
Lady: Size shoes.

[Aware that everyone in the store could overhear the conversation between Lady and the 5’1” Nutty Princess,] NP replies, “Oh. Sev—I mean, six.”

Lady: Six?
NP (whispering): ...and a half?
Lady: Well, you’re left foot is hitting seven. I’m going to have to get you seven and a half shoes.
NP: Uh, okay.

[Lady leaves and comes back with a whole bunch of boxes as NP gazes ruefully at her stockinged feet.]

Lady: Try these on.

[NP tries them on sheepishly and Lady feels the shoe with her hand.]

Lady: Hmmm.
NP: These feel great.
Lady: Actually, I’m have to get bigger shoes.
NP: Bigger?
Lady: Bigger.
NP: Are you sure?

Lady (in one of those loud, patient yet exasperated salesperson voices): M’am, your left foot is much bigger than your right foot. Because of this, we’ll have to get a shoe to fit the left foot since your feet are naturally different sizes. It's the best thing to do, really.

NP (tucking her feet under the bench): Oh. Right.

[Lady leaves and comes back with more boxes. NP grins at customers around her. They stare at her. Some stare quizzically, some venture smiles.]

Lady: Here we go.

[NP slips on a pair of Adidas and Lady feels the shoes. It’s like being frisked by someone who has a foot fetish.]

Lady: Ooh. You still need bigger shoes. And these are too wide.
NP: Too wide?
Lady: Yeah, hold on, let me get an eight.
NP (swallowing): Eight?
Lady: Eight and a half, I mean. Hold on , I’ll be right back.

[NP mouths “eight and a half” angrily at her feet, attached to her short, slender legs.
Lady returns with more boxes.]

Lady: Ah, occasionally we get customers like you with unique situations.

[NP stares.]

Lady: Try these on, dear.

[NP shuffles around the store, studiously avoiding mirrors on the wall.]

Lady: Do they feel good?

[NP shrugs dejectedly]

Lady: Okay, I’m going to find some more shoes in that range.

[No reaction from NP]

[Lady turns before going back to the back room.]

Lady: By the way, I’m sooo sorry this took so long. I had no idea you have such LONG, NARROW FEET!

And then it just sort of went downhill from there. How the hell did I go from a 6.5 to 8.5?? I’m not one to be proud of my feet, or even really care how they look. But to have someone practically yell at me in front of a crowded store that I have long narrow feet makes me feel like I have clown shoes attached to my legs, or I resemble some sort of kangaroo. Oh well. Kangaroos can hop long distances, can’t they? I bet they can run 26 miles.