MadMup.com

Tonight I went out to eat with Kat, Kat’s parents, and Matt. It was at a Thai place, which was weird for me. If you know me at all, you know that I am not what you would call “daring.” But I have also learned that I can find something to eat just about anywhere I go. This is a change in policy for me, as I used to not even go to “weird” places. I realize now that that was rather jerky of me, and I apologize to all affected by that ever.

I ended up getting “BBQ Beef,” but it wasn’ BBQ like I think of BBQ. It had kind of a nutty taste to it, and it was on a bed of cabbage. I didn’t eat the cabbage, of course, but I ate a good deal of the beef.

It should be noted, too, that the restaurant had a peculiar smell to it. By “peculiar” I am, in this instance, referring to “very similar to hamster bedding. Used hamster bedding.” No one else agreed with me, but it should be noted that one of the other members had a stuffed-up nose and the other has a very bad sense of smell in general.

Matt was the last to arrive, and when he did, Kat & I anxiously awaited his first topic of conversation. You see, after the escapades of the other night, Kat had done some searching online and come up with a fanTAStic magnetic ribbon. It says: “Support magnetic ribbons.” Sometime late yesterday evening she drove by Matt’s house and stuck it to his car. He didn’t see it until tonight.

I think he was “bemused,” but Kat and I got no end of enjoyment out of it. Best. Joke. Ever.

Oh! And you know that part of the ribbon that pops out of the middle and looks a little like a piece of pizza? This one advertised “Every ribbon comes with a free alien head!” Sure enough, the little triangular piece was designed to look like the standard “grey” made famous by every alien movie you’ve ever seen. Sweet.

Thai food, magnetic ribbons, and alien heads. A good night.

I bought new tennis shoes this weekend, even though I don’t play tennis. You might know them as “sneakers.” I don’t sneak much. I probably sneak more than I play tennis, though. It would probably be more descriptive to just call them “Nikes.”

I had to buy new shoes because I didn’t know my foot size when I bought my last pair, apparently. I’m prone to having troubles with my toes (particularly my big toes), but I’ve been noticing lately that it’s worse when I wore my Nikes.

First thing I did at the first shoe store I went into was measure my foot on one of those weird metal foot-measuring things. The salesman slides that curved metal part so it fits around the curve at the ball of your foot and it feels like your foot just got slapped in manacles and is going to be put in solitary for a year. I’ve always been creeped out by that.

The measuring manacle said my foot was a half-size bigger than the shoes I was wearing. That sounded about right, though there’s something depressing about having big feet. My dad always used to talk about “boats” or “skis” when I’d come home from getting new shoes, but I’d never been diagnosed with size 12.5 feet before. Add to that the fact that very few stores carry half-sizes so I have to look for size 13 shoes and it becomes a real downer.

I started my search. It should be noted at this point that my friend Kat was along, mostly because I am what we like to call “fashion challenged.” Her job was to help me strike some sort of balance between what I liked and what would actually look okay for me to wear. Right away I was informed that a “too white” shoe was not going to make the cut. I was also not interested in anything too flashy. My only demands were that they be Nikes and that they specifically be “Nike Air.” I found years ago that Nike Airs were better for my back – that Air cushion seems to be the main reason.

Do you know how hard it is to find Nike Airs that aren’t too white or too flashy? Turns out, it’s about five-stores-hard.

At the first store, we ran into a salesman that Kat knew. He was all about selling me some shoes, talking about “hooking me up” and letting me spin the “savings wheel” for an extra discount. He seemed a bit too interested in seeing that I bought shoes from that store, and it was a little disconcerting.

Second store: found a possible shoe, but they didn’t have it in my size.
Third store: nothing.
Fourth store: nothing, though Kat got a pair of flip-flops best described as “adorable.” Also “cute.”

At the fifth store, I finally stumbled on something: a mostly-white shoe with black detailing. Did they have my size? No, they did not. However, they did have the same shoe with blue detailing in my size. Fine. I tried them on, they seemed okay, I bought them.

I can remember that, when I was younger, I liked getting new shoes. When I put them on, I felt like I could run faster, jump farther, and be lighter on my feet than with my old ones. I loved how new they looked, and it was always a sad time when they first got dirty. Now, though, I dread change. I get used to the feel of my shoes, even if they’re not the best fit for me. I could put that same pair of shoes on every day for years just for the familiar uncomfortability they offer. I want to hang on to the look, the feel, the familiarity, and even the memories of where those shoes have been. Putting on new shoes feels like I’m abandoning the old ones, especially since the old ones aren’t worn out yet. I didn’t think I’d be ready for new shoes for a long time.

But… I outgrew the old ones. I wasn’t expecting that to happen. I figured I was all done growing. The shoes fit when I bought them, and I expected to wear them for a long time. My decision to get new ones came as a surprise to me, but I guess sometimes pain beats desire.

In the meantime, I’ve got these new shoes. They look bigger than I should be able to wear, but my feet fit in them without mashing my big toes. They’re clean and spiffy, and I’m already worried about the first time I’ll get them marked up. I’ve taken to them pretty quickly, and I’m surprised by how comfortable I am with them already.

I wonder where these shoes will take me…

Yesterday at work, I received a “goodie bag” in my mailbox. I was hoping for free samples of candy and gadgets, but was disappointed to only find anti-tobacco propoganda. There were pamphlets, pens, and one of those magnetic ribbons that people are so fond of putting on their cars these days. You’ve seen them – yellow for “support the troops,” pink for “breast cancer awareness,” red for…well, who can keep up with them, really? There are too many. Name a cause, there’s a ribbon color for it.

Well, add green to the color list. The green magnetic ribbon in my goodie bag has “Tobacco Awareness” printed on it. Does this strike anyone else as odd? I’m aware of tobacco. I’m aware that people smoke. I’m even aware that tobacco, when grown, is green. But slapping “Tobacco Awareness” on a green magnetic ribbon seems…goofy. A little like someone wearing a Rice Chex T-shirt in my mind. “I’m aware of tobacco!” it says. “But not of how tacky it is to put magnetic ribbons on my vehicle!” it also says.

Last night after practice, my two best IRL friends Kat and Matt and I went out for a bite to eat, then caravaned back to Matt’s house. Before we pulled out, though, I was struck with an idea, so I slapped the Tobacco Awareness ribbon on the car Kat was driving. Matt and I got a huge kick out of seeing it on there and joked about how it was going to have to make the rounds between our three cars from now on.

It was an idea relished in its infancy as we imagined the other two unsuspectingly showing up somewhere with the ribbon attached to their vehicle.

The idea was quickly abandoned, though, when we pulled up to Matt’s house.

“That’s the guy who was having that really loud party the other night!” he said, pointing at a cranky looking dude rummaging around in his pickup truck.

“We should totally put the ribbon on his truck,” I said, totally aware of my anti-prank stance, but feeling this particular brand of street justice was warranted.

Matt had been opening the door, but quickly shut it to help stifle the giggles with which he was suddenly struck. Kat by this time was outside the car and wondering why weren’t getting out.

As soon as Truck Dude was done rummaging around in his truck and wen back inside, Matt opened his door, dashed around to the back of Kat’s car, grabbed the ribbon, slapped it on Truck Dude’s truck, and hurried back around to join us where we stood, too amazed to laugh.

We had just started to realize the silliness and simultaneous wonderfulness of the stunt when Truck Dude came back out. We busied ourselves saying goodbyes and chit-chatting, trying to look unguilty, knowing for sure that Truck Dude was going to wander around to the back of his truck, see the ribbon, and kill us all. What actually happened was that he got in his truck and pulled out, leaving us laughing and maybe whooping a little bit. Take that, Truck Dude!

I’m struck with a few thoughts after the fact. One, I’m kind of sorry to see the magnetic ribbon go. It was fun just waiting to happen. Two, I’m glad the magnetic ribbon gave its life for a good cause. Three, with the amount of laughter and possible whooping we were doing at 11 o’clock at night in Matt’s parking lot, it’s possible that he could be on the receiving end of a similar prank in the future for similar reasons. Four, I wish I could see the look on Truck Dude’s face when he sees the magnetic ribbon and says, “Man, I’m already aware of tobacco.”