The Case of the Shameful Shoes

and how a hot dog rescued me

I was feeling pretty good about myself the other day. I had just finished a good workout and dare I say, there was probably a little strut in my step. Oh, I don’t suffer from “Imaginary Lat Syndrome”- that’s when you see these young guys strutting about with their arms a little out to the sides as though their latissimus dorsi muscle is so bulked up. I limit any expression of confidence with just a slight strut. A touch of swagger, perhaps. No showboating for me. And besides, I have a bagel where others have lats. And as a resident of a glasshouse, far be it from me to throw stones.

I’m rocking out to Greta Van Fleet and feeling fit AF. Damn! I’m good!

I’m using my wonder-woman-hands-on-hips pose as I contemplate what’s next with my workout. Aha! Look at me!

I pretend the pressure wrap on my forearm is my bullet deflector. Maybe I should wear one on the other arm too.

But I dismiss the idea. Being pretty good at hypochondria, I’d probably develop tendonitis in that arm too.

An attempt to do a quad stretch by using my left arm to pull my left ankle up behind me deflates me and a whimper escapes my lips. Damn tendonitis.

I glance around to see if anyone observed my victory lap stumble. Phew. I’m safe. Everyone’s preoccupied with their workout.

This calls for a mat and some floor stretching. Back in wonder woman character, I spy a spot next to a very tiny silver-haired woman sitting on her mat. Looks friendly, I tell myself as I head in that direction. Then I freeze. She’s doing pretzel maneuvers. She’s probably a retired Romanian gymnast. The bitch. My mat and I look for a space far from her.

I may pretend to be wonder woman but I am not delusional as to my actual fitness level. And it would be especially humiliating if I let out an inadvertent grunt getting my Lycra clad ass onto the mat.

I scold myself. What the hell’s the matter with you? You’re 59 years old and still comparing yourself to others.

Ah yes. A session of the heckling peanut gallery in my head has begun.

Another voice speaks up. Just finish the damn workout, it says.

I plop the mat on the floor while further admonishing myself. I can go from aw, look at all these beloved people that God loves to what the hell’s the matter with these cretins? I hope that dude drops a barbell on his toe for irritating me.

It is exhausting to be me. My life feels like a loaded clown car with no designated driver.

I glance at the time and realize I’m doing more reflecting than stretching.

Sitting tall, I take in a nice deep breath and draw the souls of my shoes together for a nice inner thigh stretch. And that’s when I saw it. Well, here. See for yourself.

I give you exhibit A.

Sweet baby Jesus, save me.

I glance around surreptitiously to see if anyone is noticing. Great! Now all the clowns in my imagined clown car are wearing mismatched shoes.

I glance at you-know-who. The gymnast is now resembling the letter O and I’m wondering if she’s going to somersault through the gym. No, she’s preparing for another move and people are now removing their ear buds and actually looking up from equipment.

A crowd forms around her as she finishes with a flourish of handsprings, flying over the leg press, free weight section and treadmills. This is spectacular! Finally, she performs a flawless dismount in front of…in front of me. We exchange eye contact for a moment and then her gaze falls to my feet.

There I am. Ryka on the left. Asis on the right. They “sorta” match. I try to suck in my tummy and sit up a little straighter.

The crowd moves from applause to silence as they regard my shameful footwear. The gymnast’s victorious, upheld arms drop to her sides. She utters a tsk-tsk while giving a nod of disapproval.

Ear buds are back in ears, people resume their workouts. After giving me the side eye, that is.

FFS, Theresa. STOP IT!

Once again, I am lost in cartoon land. Back to reality.

I glance back at my shoes. No one seems to notice. And little Nadia is now hanging up her mat, oblivious to my shameful sneakers.

My secret appears to be safe.

Unlike the time I marched out to my car holding the bottle of disinfecting solutions used to wipe down machines and made a public confession to the front desk staff.

“Heh-heh, the bottle wanted to experience the sun today, so I took it for a short walk.” He flashes a quizzical but amused look. I think he jotted down something on my account. Probably something like, “Watch out for this one, she’s a thief.”

Then there was the time I forgot my towel but didn’t realize it after I was standing buck nakey in the shower. The trauma of 7th grade gym class and the subsequent community shower resurfaced. Trotting from the shower to the safety of a changing stall without kissing the tiled floor was a pretty impressive feat, now that I ponder this.

I recall the time I nearly fell off a recumbent bike. A stationary recumbent bike. The face plant I performed on the little hand bikey thing… yeah, good times. I swear I’m not making this up.

What the hell is the matter with me, anyway? I mean, what with surviving divorce, breast cancer and a most unfortunate gastronomic event involving a big salad and a Starbucks, ya’d think my resilience would at least afford me a little protection from humiliating myself in the most spectacularly stoopid and mundane fashion.

I texted a picture of my footwear to my sweetie, Tom.

“You forget your ADHD medication again, didn’t you?” he helpfully replied.

I checked my phone to see if the latest update included the sarcastic font.

No cigar.

“For the record, I am both fully caffeinated and medicated,” I reply.

“It’s those bitch pills,” I add, feeling a little prickly. That’s what I call the hormone blocker I must take for several years to prevent an encore appearance of breast cancer.

I send him a screen shot of side effects.

“See, it’s all right here,” I reply. Clumsiness isn’t listed but one can extrapolate, right?

“Damn pills!” I add.

“Sure, it is,” he replies. He’s a wise man. And we’re both pretending that I wasn’t an ADHD train wreck before the whole cancer bullshit and its subsequent bitch pills.

The little dots showing he is tapping away on another message appears in the text.

Car keys in hand, I pause, waiting to see what he has to say.

“I suggest getting a Ted’s hot dog,” my little Guiding Light replies.

This is just great. He just HAD to mention those glorious charbroiled dogs that snap when you bite into them.

I AM feeling a little hungry. The mental gymnastics I performed have alone worked up an appetite.

Dammit, Tom. That’s a 15-mile drive. But he, a highly food suggestible person, has influenced me and now I too am food suggestible.

I want a Ted’s hot dog.

He texts back, MmmmmmMmmmmmm with a hot dog emoji.

Now I simply MUST have a Ted’s hot dog. It can even enlighten me if I ask for one with everything.

Look at me all mystic-y! Om. I text Tom my insight.

He replies, “That mantra’s wrong. It’s EOM which stands for everything on mine.”

I stand corrected. He’s a genius, that one.

I gather my things and after double checking to make sure I haven’t gone kleptomaniac with any items, I head to the car, mismatched shoes leading the way, uttering EOM under my breath.

This girl’s going to Ted’s. A glorious hot dog shall deliver me! I am going to celebrate my victory over humiliation!

But from the drive thru.

Thanks so much for reading. You can find me around the internet at www.theresawinn.com, on Facebook, LinkedIn and Instagram. If you’d like to subsidize a Ted’s hot dog so I can keep up my strength to write, feel free to contribute to my wishlist.