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She didn't own any real running shoes, because they aren't CUTE. But she had cheer shoes that she repurposed into running shoes and all was fine, until the track coach insisted she needed running spikes. This was NOT something I wanted to invest much money into, since I couldn't be sure the social aspect would be enough to outweigh the torture of training for more than one season (what I was THINKING, I have no idea, since the BOYS train at the same time and place as the girls). Luckily, I found a clearance pair of spikes for $20 online (Nike's, no less) and all was well for the season.
It's a year later. Track season has begun. I pick her up from practice, and she announces the track coach wants her to have running shoes.
"But you have running spikes already," I say.
"Coach says those aren't good for you to wear all the time, and I need good running shoes, not cheer shoes."
"But the cheer shoes were good enough LAST year. And in two months, you will be done with track and said you would never, ever, ever go out for it again. I don't want to buy you expensive running shoes."
Every day when I picked her up, she would tell me how Coach says she needs good running shoes. The day I picked her up early from track, Coach told ME she needed good running shoes.
I finally caved and took her to Academy for good running shoes.
Which conjured up memories of shopping at Academy for volleyball shoes for her a year ago, when I got the call from the surgeon that I had breast cancer.
(Don't think about it. Don't think about it. DON'T THINK ABOUT IT.)
We found an acceptable pair.
"The only way I can tell if they're going to work is if I run in them," she said, at which point she got up off the floor, walked down the aisle, and disappeared around the corner while I stood there, wondering where she was going.
Next thing I knew, a blonde streak ran past the end of the aisle. A few seconds later, she came back.
"Yep, these are fine."
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One of the side effects of my meds is that my fingernails have become dry and brittle and break like potato chips. Something to do with stripping me of every last bit of estrogen. (I'm not complaining - since my tumor was estrogen-fed, I am in no way sorry that I no longer HAVE any estrogen. You'd just be surprised what NOT having any can do to you.)
Since my fingernails break so easily, I have taken to wearing fake nails that I get at Walmart for $5 for a whole box and glue on. Occasionally, one of them pops off, so I carry nail glue in my purse so I can stick it right back on.
As my daughter and I were leaving Academy with the new running shoes, I looked down at my hand and saw that Ring Man was missing a fingernail.
I said that maybe it was in her shoe box, since I had stuffed the paper stuffing back into the shoes when I put them in the box to pay for them.
She checked when she got to the car. No fingernail.
And THAT, kiddies, means that I lost the fingernail in ANOTHER box of running shoes.
One that we didn't buy.
One that someone else is going to open, pull the paper out of the toe, and have my fake fingernail fall out of the stuffing.
Is it wrong that that makes me giggle?