Suzy Says

Yes, these sneakers cost the same as my used Manolos

[Note: For some reason, I know not why, the comments have turned themselves off. The Doc is on it. In the meantime, email me at sjpeakall@gmail.com. You’ll be glad you did.]

Guess what I did yesterday?

I bought a pair of sneakers!

That’s the sum total of my achievement.

And somehow, it took all day.

I took the bus downtown to buy new sneakers, or , as my father would say, plimsols. When I introduced my eternally fashionable stepmother to the concept of the sneaker, she tried them on and exclaimed with pleasure in her rich, plummy English accent, “They’re so gorgeously squashy!” She was a convert.

I, on the other hand, made the fatal error of buying cheap sneakers and wearing them for ~mumble~ years. They were no longer squashy, let alone gorgeously squashy. I leave that to my thighs. My feet finally rebelled after a long walk at Big River. My feet were still so sore the next day that I borrowed my sister’s Keens to wear to the city. Notice how Megan always has the right footwear and I never do.

The other mistake I made was my incorrect memory of where things are in the nebulous area south of Market Street. I got off the bus too early for my first stop, and had to walk for about 20 minutes to Ross in my unsuitable work shoes. At Ross, they didn’t have a thing I wanted. That’s the thing about Ross: they either have tons of things you want, or nothing.

Then I decided to walk to REI, which was also much further than I remembered. I spent over an hour trying on 5 pairs of shoes with the help of a very knowledgeable gentleman. He was horrified that I’d kept the same shoes for so long – apparently, 400-600 miles is the limit – and explained how my non-archy arches made my feet hurt. He was Russian and was an engineer at Apple down in Cupertino until they outsourced all the jobs to China and he was laid off.

So I spent $100 on sneakers for the first time in my life.

I wore them out of the store, thinking I could just grab a cab. Those of you who are wondering why I didn’t drive have never experienced the lack of parking in this compact city, or the exorbitant pricing of what parking there is. I thought public transit was a good idea. Shows what I know.

I couldn’t get a cab, and even wearing my new, gorgeously squashy sneakers, my feet hurt like hell. It took me 40 minutes and 0 cabs to get to Market Street, San Francisco’s Main Street. Surely, here I could get a cab.

Nope.

Eventually, I called one. I waited 20 minutes, and it hadn’t appeared. I called back, and they said, “Oh, he must have picked up someone else. We’ll send another one.” He showed up in 10 minutes, and I had to stop myself from kissing him and offering to marry him. Arriving at my hotel, I discovered that the maid was still cleaning, even though the cleaning cart had been next door when I left four hours earlier and the manager had asked if I wanted the room cleaned before I left and I said yes.

I went to call Megan and tell her I’d be home tomorrow and get a status update on the cats, who don’t seem to miss me, while the maid finished up. When I went back to my room, the card key didn’t work. I went to the office to get a new one.

It was the imperfect end to an imperfect day.