The Neon Shoe Issue

Although I just got my shoes last year, and they are not the least bit worn or weathered, I still want a new pair of cleats. If a player from another team decided to try to sabotage me by cutting holes in my cleats and spray-painting them yellow, I would be all the more grateful. Not that I don’t like my current shoes, because they have been pretty good to me, never complaining as I leave my sweaty socks inside them or get turf wedged in between their creases.  But when the mighty mail man (who my dog not-so-secretly despises), drops off a new soccer apparel magazine that has me drooling over the glossy pages. (However, I manage to do so in an elegant, lady-like fashion…)

Now I’m sure most of you know what the neon shoe issue is. Or if you don’t, you can probably guess what it is. Go on, give it a try… no idea?

The neon shoe issue is that when you get neon-colored shoes and play sports in them, people expect you to be pretty good at that sport. I mean, you did by neon shoes.

Okay, now back to me. Because this blog, after all, is about me (see the title if you don’t believe me). As I was flipping through the magazine, drooling a little bit, even getting teary eyed on certain pages (though I’d hate to admit it), I couldn’t help but stopping on the page with all the neon shoes. They are brilliant! Like highlighters that your feet can be cozily wrapped in: purples and blues and pinks and yellows and greens. Every month it seems that Nike out does itself, finding more and more combinations of neons to splash together on a shoe. And can you blame them? They look amazing. I’m tempted to sabotage my own shoes just to get a pair. But then I thought about the reputation they’d get me. I don’t want too high of expectations set for me, and especially expectations made because of my shoes! Some of you out there probably think the whole issue is pretty silly. And it is. But I can’t help fearing the neon shoes, and so I push the magazine away. Plus, Ole Faithful, lefty and righty, are calling me from the mudroom, asking to be rid of little turflets and nasty socks. And so, I walk away.