Here in the Emerald City, we know the importance of a good pair of shoes. So what’s a girl to do when her “oh so lovely and far too expensive, best ever running shoes” go missing? Clearly she throws a bitch fit.
No, wait, she is a lady.
She empties her closet, every box in her apartment, looks in the fridge, texts her mother, and searches her car. That was Monday morning… then she throws a bitch fit.
So, I went to work and moped.
Mid-morning I received a text from my mother informing me that she had found my shoes. Cue the happy dance! They were in her closet. Why? I have no idea and I didn’t care.
Setting out after work to retrieve my beloved shoes, I made the mile trek up Capitol Hill… erm… the forest of Spooks (or not, this metaphor kind of sucks already) and realize that Dorothy had it easy. There were definitely not hills like this in Oz. No matter, my sights were set on finally laying my hands on my ruby (pink) slippers (running shoes) again.
This metaphor still sucks.
Arriving at her apartment, my heart sank. The shoes sitting there were distinctly not my running shoes. Surely my mom wouldn’t have made such a mistake. She didn’t. I called her and she told me where she had put the actual pair of shoes she found. When I saw them, though, I nearly wanted to cry. These were not the right pair either. These were a super cheap and painful pair I had bought several years ago and no longer wore. They were in her closet because we were going to donate them.
Disheartened, I just wanted to go home. Lacking the ability to tap my heels three times and be there, I searched my wallet for bus fare. But wait, where was my wallet?
Retracing my steps, I walked back down the hill in much poorer spirits. I made a side trip to take a self-pitying look at my car in the alley where it was parked for safe keeping. One more look inside, I decided. This exercise in futility couldn’t hurt anything.
For the record, since I’m using this whole OZ thing, I should note that I think of my car as the Wicked Witch of the West. Why? She’s green with a black top and she flies. Fortunately, since I live in Seattle, rain does not melt her.
So, I checked the junk in her trunk (hehe), the backseat, and finally the back storage area. On a whim I looked in a box that I knew should be empty. Lo and fucking behold, someone put my shoes in there. I know who did it and usually I would be mad but I was just so happy to find my shoes that I literally shrieked with glee.
I happily tied them to my bag and went to retrieve my wallet.
Feeling significantly more light-footed and not wanting to pay for bus fare, I decided to try walking home. Just under two miles and only slightly hilly, it felt like the perfect plan. I could stop at the market on the way home, make dinner, and have a lovely evening.
Walking through my city as the slight drizzle curled my already messed hair, I felt happier and freer than I have in a long time. I mean, I’ve been happy again for the past month but it was like making good better.
In my little big city, I feel at home. It exhilarates me just to walk through it. I got home exhausted and slightly sore but the dinner I made shortly after cured any little thing I might have complained about. It was a moment of utter bliss. It may have taken four miles, blood, sweat, and tears to get me there but, shit; there’s no place like home.
Stay tuned tomorrow for my “There’s No Place Like Home Omelet”