Okay, Okay. I’ve been slacking a little. Just a little. Well, maybe more than a little. I have a gazillion excuses though! Like my sister was visiting from out-of-town, so we had lots of together time and catching up to do. One night we went on a ghost tour. I wish I could explain why I would wear 3 1/2″ heeled boots on a 90 minute walking tour. Besides the fact that they are just so cute, and when I wear them, I feel cute. Did I mention that I am a shoe freak? Yes, it is true. I love them. I collect them. Sometimes I buy them knowing I have nothing to wear with them. Sometimes I buy them and simply display them on a shelf like a china doll collection while they wait for a special outfit to match. A new pair of shoes puts a little spring in my step, makes me sing like an angel, fly like a bird, and even helps me concentrate! Call me vain or call me crazy…either way, I can wholeheartedly agree. Needless to say there is a price to pay for giving in to the ‘cute before comfort’ shoe fetish. Like the next day, with a slightly twisted and swollen ankle from the loose cobblestone brick I stepped on…ouch! I realize that a swollen ankle does not prevent you from typing on the computer, unless of course you type with your toes. Which I don’t.
However, another thing we did was go bowling. I can (proudly) proclaim that I do not own a pair of bowling shoes. I also do not have my own bowling ball. With that said, I think it probably goes without saying that I really do not bowl much. Not having my own shoes or ball normally does not matter to me…until I want to go bowling. That’s fine. I just scoot to my lane with my Lysol smelling loafers and try not to think about it…ewww. Then of course, the journey begins, rack by rack, looking for a workable ball. Of course, there is never a ball that is a perfect fit, and if it fits ‘okay’ it is usually way too heavy, which was my case. Ultimately I settled on a shiny turquoise blue ball that was 13 pounds, with holes that were slightly too big. Just big enough that I was concerned about it slipping out from my fingers behind me while in full swing. Don’t worry. It didn’t happen. However, by the fourth game my fingers felt like they were going to fall off from the death grip and internal squeeze I had going on in order to keep my ball rolling in the right direction!
As much as I would like to say my fingers were too sore to type, that is really not true. It is also not due to the fact that I was giving my dog a haircut, spent a day sulking about nothing, and another one watching tv. For a brief moment I kind of thought I would blame it on writer’s block. Then again, I think I am going to go with my dog ate my laptop…and my 3 1/2″ heels.