I turned the big 3-0 a couple weeks ago. Like many of the big milestones of my life, I felt it necessary to mark the occasion in the only way I know how: with new shoes.
It makes perfect sense. I've been standing and running and jumping and climbing on these feet for 30 years. I've also been shoving them into very pointy high heels for at least half of that time. I think I owe them something for all we've been though.
I ordered a pair of the New Balance WT10 trail runners I mentioned in a previous post; the shoes meant to pull me out of whatever running funk I've been in lately, put a spring in my step, a smile on my face, and everything else that comes with buying cool stuff you don't really need.
For example, the simple pleasures of delayed gratification:
The unopened box. Shall we see what treasures lurk within?
Sneaker aficionados may note that this particular pair of WT10s are from the men's collection. The women's styles were lovely but a tad too tasteful for my liking. I want my 30-year-old feet to shout from the rooftops. I want my feet to be in California if the rest of my body has to be stuck in dumb old rainy Massachusetts. I want to be the only gal in town with tangerine-colored feet.
I wore my little lovelies out this morning to catch the bus to work, on what passes for trail in this corner of metro Boston. Sure brightened up a gloomy day, they did.
And, you know, they were light and comfy and all that jazz. But most importantly, as pretty as a summer flower, don't you agree?