Habit foaming

Some things never really get old.

A box arrives every three months like clockwork. Every three hundred miles to be exact.

A new pair of running kicks.

It's not a mystery gift. I have no subscription to a running-shoe-of-the-month club (if there is such a thing). No, it's a carefully plotted purchase that has been months in the making. In fact, just a few days after the last pair arrived I've scrolled through hundreds of pages of online catalogs looking for exactly the same pair in a color I've never heard of, that matches no other piece of clothing I own.

Mine are meant to be bright and light and seen from outer space. They also must be so cushiony that every adjective that described them had been derived from the mental image of clouds.

As if striding atop the aerosol of tiny water droplets where saturated air has met its dew point would be even remotely comfortable let alone effortless.

I'd like to tell you I'd gone from here to Boston and back, but the truth is I've just circled the neighborhood a few hundred times.

It's a strangely slow process, buying shoes. I even bide my time in the hopes of reaching the mythical 400 miles. I see how long I can hold out. People who know about such things say I should be able to squeak out at least one more trip to Cambridge (the New York one) and back, but I never get that far.

I don't understand it exactly. They don't look worn-in let alone worn-out.

The quarter-year-old shoes haven't lost even a hint of their vibrant hue. There's a little fraying around the mystery lace hole that is supposed to lock your foot in place, but only four people on Earth have ever used it. And every single one of those people complained about the speed at which the fraying accelerated.

Yet somehow I feel their decrepitude in my bones. A creak here, a groan there. Each step I take after the magic number 300 threatens to multiply fatigue by superstition. Truth is, even if I didn't know down to the millimeter how far my shoes have traveled, I'd know by the knee pain.

I'm giddy when the box arrives. I am intoxicated by the prospect of fresh foam and the new ride smell that will greet me the second I open the lid and shift the paper protector. The chemical components of clouds.

I can't fathom how I've let color or style argue in the backseat as I make comfort ride upfront. 

As I transport them to their new home - a little out-of-the-way nook of the house with a built-in ledge for sitting - I anticipate the ease and speed that will undoubtedly accompany me on my next run. The occasion of which will be now, since that is how runners celebrate new shoes.

And quite honestly, in those first few moments; after I start my watch and wave to the neighbors (who have somehow noticed my feet's change in color and elevation) I feel like I am flying. 

As if I were five again.