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I
finally did my back-to-school shopping over the weekend. I should have
started earlier to allow more time to break in new shoes, but if I had, I
might not have 24 new crayons — or any crayons at all.
Since
shoes are useful in nearly all walks of life, those of us not going back
to school can still take advantage of the sales. I wanted a new pair to
run around in, so I got athletic shoes. As far as I know, most of my shoes
sit around the house doing nothing most of the day, but if some claim to
be athletic by nature, I hope that's true when I put them on.
In
recent years, I've worn out several pairs of one style. They’re
lightweight and comfortable. Besides, it's easy to find more shoes of the
same kind whenever I need replacements.
Minor
dissatisfaction set in one August morning as I waited for a race to begin.
I looked around at the shoes the other people wore. I didn't see even one
pair that resembled my plain white ones. There may have been other
inexpensive brands, but the styles all appeared to be more official shoes
for running. Probably most of the people in the shoes were more official
runners also, but I decided to find a fancier look with the next purchase.
That was last year.
On
the first try, I spent a long time choosing a pair, checking carefully for
toe room, but out on the streets my selection felt like clodhoppers. I
could hardly keep them on, yet they hurt my toes in the process. I gave
up, gave them away and bought another pair of the old faithfuls.
This
August I decided to try again. Surely I could do a better job than before.
I found an agreeably lightweight pair on sale. They looked appropriate.
They felt fine in the store. They felt fine for about a mile and a half on
the streets.
Then
I started feeling sore spots on my toes. I adjusted my socks. I adjusted
the shoelaces. Nothing really helped.
I
stopped jogging, walked home as well as I could and went back to the old
pair.
Temporarily
exasperated, I wondered if there was only one kind of shoes that would
work out for me.
I
noticed, however, that compared to the new pair, the old ones felt as if I
were in a vehicle without shock absorbers. The purchase must have been
partly on the right track.
I
wedged a pair of hand weights into the new shoes, hoping to stretch them a
bit. I rubbed emu oil on my reddened toes, put on sandals with plenty of
breathing space and set out for supper items from the store.
 That's
where I saw the crayons. They looked like a major bargain, with no concern
about a size to fit. The normal price posted was about three times as much
as the sale price. I decided it was time to buy some. It would brighten up
the evening after the disappointment with the new shoes.
I
haven't used crayons for years. I instinctively started by trying all the
colors, after guessing their names (and getting about a third of them
right). I made a list of samples: "This is scarlet. This is red. This
is orange." I had to look up "cerulean," but it was one of
my favorites from the box. I also liked the shades of violet. I enjoyed
some of the newer names, such as "dandelion" and
"apricot."
I've
always thought new boxes of crayons were appealing — like M&Ms for
the eyes — but I must have left coloring days behind with a
less-than-positive feeling about actually using crayons. I suppose I
remember pawing through messy boxes of broken pieces and forgot what it’s
like to use brand-new crayons with perfect tips. I was surprised at how
easy it is to write with them. These went gliding along more smoothly than
a regular pen.
Maybe
the new shoes will also glide along someday — on someone else's feet, if
not on mine. I think I prefer new, unbroken crayons and older, broken-in
shoes.
Maybe
I should just get another pair of plain shoes and color them.
[Mary
Krallmann]
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