My September 11 disaster was not an isolated incident this month. I also managed to lose my running shoes at sometime during the past month. Somehow. Somewhere.
It probably happened the last time I went to the gym. That was the visit which started with a run on the treadmill and ended with 2 bottles of red wine and a couple of packets of sour worms. It is an accomplishment to arrive at a gym sober and leave drunk. An unworthy accomplishment.
I have been evicted from so many shoe stores in Hanoi that I didn't bother trying. The eviction usually goes like this: walk in the store, greet the shopkeeper, try to read their giggling smile, ask them if they have anything in your size, hear a gentle "no" as they show you the door. I waited until I was in Kuala Lumpur to buy some new running shoes. I figured that Kuala Lumpur has enough potatoes and tall Malays for me to find good footwear in my size and it did.
Last Monday my new running shoes and I eloped to the gym. My shiny new bride, wrapped in white tissue paper.
On arrival I realised that I had left my socks at home and would have to go without. Just one time without protection won't hurt, I told myself. Don't even think about using this as an excuse to go home, I told my fat self.
After a few minutes on the treadmill my right little toe was hurting from the friction of running. So I stopped, tied my shoes more tightly and continued. After 10 minutes it started hurting again but I ignored it. After another 10 minutes it became much worse so I stopped.
I looked down to see that the right side of my new white shoe had turned a dull pinky red colour. Blood had seeped through the shoe from my bleeding toe. You can use this as an excuse to go home, I told my fat self.
When I got home I was tempted to hang it from the balcony and proudly yell "virginem eam tenemus!". I thought better of this and rinsed it in the kitchen sink. With cold water.
