Split time

We are unfaithful. As we head out of the running store with new loves on our feet, our old paramours  are already relegated to the box under our arm. We are sailors on shore leave, seduced by stability, mesmerized by motion control. And so we look down at our faithful friends – as comfortable as an old, well, you know – and promptly unlace our way into a trial separation. I just want to see other shoes, you say. It doesn’t mean we’re over. And we’re not. ‘Cause now we’ll wear you when we mow the lawn. Pull you out for the muddiest of trail runs. You were Picasso and we want you to paint the house. So you end up on a darkened shelf until one day the door opens and two faded yet familiar beauties are placed beside you. You’ll never believe what happened to us, they say. Yes we would, you answer. Yes we would.