The Hair of the Dog (or the cat, or both)

At one point in time there was someone who discovered that it was important to clean under the couch cushions. Likely this discovery was made at a very inopportune moment. The Duchess of Such and Such has just paid Mr. and Mrs. Peasant a surprise visit. Somehow the Duchess’s brooch slipped off and slid into the cushion of the couch. Sure, Mr. and Mrs. Peasant they cleaned their tables, washed their floor and probably even ironed their curtains. But they never gave a thought to those couch cushions. They never had a reason to. So, they watch in quiet astonishment as the brooch slides between the cushions. They ask the duchess to stand up while they lift the cushion to retrieve her jewels. The cushion is lifted and that’s when they see a quill pen, a stick of chewing gum, some tobacco from grandpa’s pipe, a small rodent skeleton, three unidentifiable green things and some dirty magazines. (And by dirty I mean they are literally covered in dirt, rot and some tobacco juices). This discovery now burned in the brains of everyone in the room is quickly turned into family lore, passed down from generation to generation. A cautionary tale. It is surely the reason you and I clean underneath the cushions to this day. We must show gratitude to the ones who came before us, who embarrassed themselves so you and I would not have to. My friends, today, I must pass on to you another tale of woe. Heed my story, so this doesn’t happen to you.

I was hoping to see Alexa as I pulled into the parking lot of Route 16, our local running specialty shop. She wasn’t there. Neither was Gwen.  I was hoping to see these ladies because they are my friends and they also happen to be dang smart when it comes to all things running.  I did recognize the salesman who was there. He’s a nice guy, no doubt, and knowledgeable about running for sure. However he’s quiet, reserved and a little hard to read. He’s probably 15 or 16 years my junior (I know what you are thinking, that would make him about nine, and you’re darned right. We’ll have to check on child labor laws in Gig Harbor at another time) .For some reason when I see him, I feel like I need to make up for his lack of overt enthusiasm by being over the top bubbly. It’s really bad, too, because I am guessing over the top bubbly isn’t really his happy place. And having to deal with the smelly feet of someone who won’t stop saying things like “Super” and “Awesome” and “oh that’s so cool!” is probably not his cup of tea either. Yet, I can’t help myself. Quiet people do this to me. Their lack of conversation actually drains me of IQ points, leaving me to fill every silent moment with something ridiculous and inarticulate.

Anyway, I was wearing a cute pair of Toms, but I had my tattered, mildly scented running shoes in hand as I entered the store. I had a pair of still-warm-from-my-3- miler socks, peeking out of one of my shoes. I didn’t think it was strange to be bringing these worn objects into a store, though in retrospect I wouldn’t bring an old fraying pair of underwear into Victoria’s Secret  and dangle them in front of the sales person and say something like “These things have seen better days.” At least I hope I wouldn’t.

I do have my reasons for bringing the shoes. First of all, Alexa had mentioned that she’d love to have a good look at my shoes to see where they are worn most. These things would tell her if I’m a heel striker or if I overpronate etc. etc.  I also wanted to ditch the custom orthotics my podiatrist gave me after a stress fracture last summer. I figured if I showed what my orthotics looked like then we could discuss if I could get away with something less rigid. Anyway, that was my plan if Alexa or Gwen had been there. But they weren’t, and while I can’t blame them for what happened next, I wish I could.

So the salesperson, let’s just call him Joe, says something like “How are those shoes working out for ya?” And I slip into some fantastic reply back like, “Oh my gosh! I totally love them. My Brooks! The Brooks Ghost. They are like the best shoes ever, for sure. But well, you know, they are kind of worn out and well I would just really love to get some new ones. Shoes make me happy.”  He blinks a few times and maybe does an involuntary shudder. I can sense that I’m too much for him, but I’m out of control at this point. Before he gets me started on a shoe, I want to show him the orthotics and have that discussion about why I want to ditch them. The orthotics, are designed to go under the insert in the sole of your shoe.  I’ve had these orthotics for about ten months and, though it’s frowned upon in the running world to keep a shoe for more than six months, I have had these shoes since July.  I also think it is important to note here that I have three cats and a dog. I take my shoes off every day and leave them by the front entrance of our home which happens to be a high traffic zone. Why, is this seemingly unrelated information important to our story you ask? Well friends, read on and take care not to find yourself in the same predicament.

I bring my shoe over to Joe and begin to pull out the insert.  Under the insert is the orthotic. At least I think it’s the orthotic, though it’s hard to tell under the thick covering of fur. And I mean fur. Like I could knit you a cat hair vest and a dog hair scarf with the amount of fur that is now exposed in my shoe. It’s like a double Decker sandwich. A thick layer of fur, a plastic orthotic, a thick layer of fur, a rubber insert.  I tried to quickly shove the insert back into my shoe and cover up the fur, but it was too late. I said something very intelligent like, “Uh, sorry about the cat hair.” He came back with something witty,  “It would be okay if it were dog fur, but cat fur’s unacceptable.” I proudly amend it, “Actually it probably is dog fur. Probably both.”   I can’t quite explain why having six pounds of animal fur wedged unknowingly into your shoe is so mortifying, but it is. It was awkward and it was embarrassing. It was like trailing-toilet-paper-on- your-high-heels awkward. It was like having-your-dress-tucked-into-your-underwear embarrassing. I thought to myself the only thing that makes this bearable is the fact that I am a grown woman and I know life has its little embarrassments. At least I’m not let’s say, twelve, when something like this would make you want to crawl in a hole. And that’s when I remembered Madison.

 Poor, poor, Madison. Age twelve. Watching her mom bumble through a conversation. Watching her mom try to talk her way out of a furry mess. My dear Madison who stood so quietly by my side in all of this. I couldn’t even glance at her. Finally, I had to look over at her and when I did; when I looked at my poor twelve year old I saw she had a pained look on her face. “Mom, mom,” she whispered through gritted teeth. I followed her eyes to an air born ball of fur the size of Texas sailing on the breeze. Joe saw it, too. We all watched it travel slowly and steadily like a feather in the wind. After what seemed  a lifetime, it finally settled on the floor of the store. I picked it up, looked around and not knowing what else to do, I stuffed it back into my shoe.

This is a cautionary tale. You’re welcome.