What should I call comments?
Yes, I know, I could just call them comments, as I have been for a number of months. But I was thinking recently about coming up with something more interesting for them. Something like “Bits o’ Lovin” or “Smartass Remarks a la Mode.” But then I realized that all my ideas were pretty crappy, so I need some help. Give me some fabulous ideas, please!
I’m in Vegas! With my family! For almost two weeks! I find that completely and totally exciting. But don’t worry – the blogging will continue, uninterrupted. I can’t stop the shoe-posting, after all.
And speaking of shoes…
Day 16 of LaBloShoeMo: The Black Platform Sandals
[Picture credit: K, who is apparently enthralled by mirrors and the inherent possibilities they present for photos. Thanks K!]
Okay, since today’s post was pretty short, I’ll try to make up for it with a story about these shoes. It was sophomore year of college, when I was still dating the Ex. We were walking back from a cappella rehearsal one night with another friend, and we took a shortcut past the law auditorium. Beside it is a small grassy hill with a sculpture at the top. The sprinklers were on, and I decided to be a little silly. I said, “Hey, let’s race to the sculpture and back!” So I kicked off my shoes (these sandals), and our mutual friend kicked off his sandals, and we took off running while the Ex slowly took off his sneakers and socks. We got to the sculpture, turned around, and headed back to the bottom of the hill. About five feet from the bottom, I slid on the grass. I didn’t fall, but I did ram my toes into the edge of the concrete, where the grass ended. It hurt, but not terribly bad – just like a badly stubbed toe. The Ex, having just gotten his shoes off, said, “Hey, I want to go, too!” So I said, “Okay,” and took off again, making another round (though more successfully, as I didn’t slip this time). The whole time, my foot was kind of aching, but I didn’t think much about it. At the bottom of the hill, I slipped my shoes back on, and we continued walking back to our dorms.
The whole walk back, I kept thinking, “Wow, my foot really hurts…” But I didn’t think too much about it. Our friend stopped off at his dorm, and the Ex and I continued on to mine. When we walked in the door, and I could finally see (since it was dark outside, but light inside – imagine that!), I looked down at my foot. (Wait for it…) I turned to the Ex and said, “Um, don’t look down at my foot right now.” “Why?” he asked, surprisingly not looking directly at my foot. “Just don’t until we get to my room. Trust me.” So we continued up the stairs and in to my room and I slipped off my sandal and the Ex looked down. The entire front half of my sandal was soaked with blood; there was blood all over my foot, gushing from a gash on the bottom of my big toe. “Oh my GOD!” he shouted. “I KNOW!” I said. “These shoes are brand NEW!” “We need to get your foot cleaned up,” he said. “But, my shoes!” I responded. “Babe, we need to take care of your foot!” “But, my SHOES!” Needless to say, the Ex eventually won this argument, and he got a first aid kit from my RA to clean my foot. But as soon as that was done? He took my shoe to the bathroom and scrubbed it clean. And there is not a spot left to show the ordeal. On the shoes, anyway. I have an inch-long scar on the bottom of my big toe. But the shoes were my biggest concern, and they’re just fine, as you can see.(Now leave me ideas about comments!)