I have returned from my fairy tale in New York. Lemme tell you follks, THAT TRIP WAS SO MUCH FREAKIN' FUN I CAN'T EVEN SEE STRAIGHT!!!!!!! Did you feel the frenzied fervor in that there sentence? If not, let me know and I'll scream it at you again.
My New York Marathon experience had it all -- good food, good fun, good entertainment, and great company. It was all I had dreamed and much, much more. I would venture to say that my intimate week with this New York event produced a reaction similar to Jody Foster's in that Contact movie. You know... that one cheesy scene where she gaggles on and on with "So beautiful! So beautiful... I had no idea!"
I had no idea either Jody. Hot damn! It was so beautiful! So beautiful...
(Aside - Was that a good movie? I don't remember. All I remember is making fun of that So beautiful! I had no idea! scene because of its dramatically excessive use of drama. Although I suppose going through a worm hole and seeing alien activity would be somewhat dramatic. Who am I to judge?)
When it comes to stories, and the telling of these stories, I'm a firm believer in segmentation. There is power in segmented stories. All fables of grandeur deserve chapters, and being as my New York adventure was nothing short of grande (extra "e" added to spotlight its grandness), I shall spew my story at you in segments, one post at a time. Yer so lucky.
The first episode in this New York narrative is the Sad Shoe Story, which is illustrated nicely by this photo:
Can you see what's wrong with that picture? Let me give you a hint: There's only one Van, and the zipper pull thingee is unattached.
It all began with a woman and her packing. When I pack for a trip, I pick the shoes for the trip first, and tailor the outfittings around the shoe selection. You might think this shoe stratagem a matter of fashion, but I'm here to say it's not. It's got some function thrown in for kicks. For the New York trip, I had several criterium in mind. First, I had lots of walking planned, so the shoes needed comfort. Second, it was New York and the shoes couldn't be of the frumpy form that tends to fraternize comfortable shoes. Third, other than the running shoes, I wanted to bring only one pair of shoes. This would facilitate the extra room in the suit case so as to bring home more New Yorkables. And so it was that I picked the soft 'n flat boots shown above as "the shoes" and patterned my outfits, complete with jewelry, around them.
On Friday morning, I was running late -- like ten gargantuan minutes late. I was running around in a bluster bringing the loose ends together. At last I was finished and ready to throw on the shoes. I pulled the left boot on without incident. When I pulled on the right boot there was an incident. A big incident. I jammed the foot in the boot and gave the zipper pull a yank, when BAM! KAPOW! ZOINK! the zipper pull zipped itself right off of it's gnarly teeth. These boots weren't made to walk with me or over anyone else.
Can you imagine the panic? Spouse can. He was there! Lucky guy. "Oh no!" I cried. "Help me!" I said, then finished my plea with a cascade of cuss words.
I had no plan B for my shoe situation and began to frantically sort through my shoes. After much anguish, I settled on a tall black boot, one that paled horribly in comfort comparison. I figured that walking five miles a day in these wood-heeled boots wouldn't be a go, especially after running a marathon, so I threw a pair of Vans into my suit case as the comfort standby.
Thanks to the help of The Winder, I made it to the airport on time. I checked in and wandered to the gate, when what do my wandering eyes see? The Runner, who happens to be married to that one famed Fat Cyclist guy. They also had plans to run the New York Marathon. I plopped myself down next to her and said, "Heeeeeeyyy! How's it going?" She looked at me all strange-like, as if I were another one of Fatty's groupies, and didn't say anything. I introduced myself and she figured out who I was. Evidently she didn't recognize me BECAUSE I WASN'T WEARING THE PREORDAINED AND PREDETERMINED BOOTS!
Actually, she didn't recognize me because I was wearing makeup instead of a hat. My running (har har) into The Runner had absolutely nothing to do with my Sad Shoe Story, but I threw it in to brag about how I finally met the one and only Fat Cyclist. Just as I'm sure he's bragging to his home-cheese-cycle-friends about meeting the one and only Rabidrunner. Kidding. Not sure he knows about my alter blogging ego. I keep it kind of secret. Ish.
I made it safely to our apartment/hotel in New York. I immediately began to unpack when what do my wandering eyes see? There was only one Van in the suitcase. Can you believe that?! Somewhere along the way, one of those Vans was lost, stolen, reincarnated, beamed-up, whatever. So far this trip was not a good one for shoes.
Fortunately, both of my running shoes made the voyage, in the which I experienced oodles of relief. But only after another cascade of cuss words.