When new shoes aren't the answer

When I come upon one of life's strategically placed stumbling blocks (shitty day at the office, supplemental property tax bill, the last piece of pie that I've been saving has gone bad) protocol indicates that it is time to shop. For shoes.

So, to Zappos I go, to find the 3 1/2" red patent mary janes that will soothe my soul and restore balance in the universe. Or, in the case of my busted hoof, to the fancy pants running store that everyone around here wants to marry to shod myself with something narrow enough for my spaghetti like feet.

Problem solved. Ish.

This morning, all full of myself for being "good" and "resting" my lame paw last week instead of trotting out the training schedule as planned, I bounded off the front porch in my new running shoes ready to get back on track and regain my momentum.

All was right with the world for about two miles. I was prancing along, mouthing the words to The Killers latest album as the the loser I let myself be, feeling all not in pain when I was suddenly alerted to a no-no going on in my shoe.

What is this rubbing sensation happening along the arch of my left foot? Why does it feel like my sock is suddenly made of sandpaper?

Wait! Now what is happening on the arch of my right foot? That sock is ALSO made of sandpaper? I don't recall buying my socks at Home Depot.

Damnit! I know what that feeling is. It's a blister. Make that two blisters. One on each arch. Right where the shoe is most aggressively hugging my tender spaghetti.

Oh for the love. I have blisters on my spaghetti.

Now, contrary to the advice I, like, JUST gave Kelli about running with blisters (technically, it was about running without socks which resulted in blisters) I continued on. Repeating to myself that I was only 1.5 miles from home and could save myself some pain by taking longer strides, thus covering more ground with fewer steps, and looking like some sort of leaping Silly Nanny. When that didn't really help, I decided that loosening my laces might help relieve the strangulation happening on my chaffing arches.

No go.

Tighten the laces so that they are so tight that the shoe couldn't POSSIBLY move enough to rub my feet.

OUCH. No.

Combine ideas: Loosen the laces way out, lengthen stride until you appear to be practicing ballet rather than running and focus on the street sign that indicates the end of your route with all your might. In case of emergency, imagine how awesome it will be to tear off your shoes and socks and let your searing arches breathe fresh air.

So, in the end, I got my first post-injury run done in record time without re-aggravating the injury, but managed to accumulate two new little annoying "injuries" along the way. As a bonus, my neighbors think I'm off my nut since I spent a five full minutes after my run luxuriating barefoot on the front porch glider as though I was having some sort of run-induced orgasm.

Tomorrow, moleskin.