Friday, November 13, 2009

Turning on a Dime

I stare at the sole of my shoe one more time. A variously dimpled, furrowed and carved landscape, the output of a multi-million dollar R&D-Marketing effort. Surely deserving the hefty wad I paid for that boot. The other boot cost about the same. A grey, white & blue "FX System", no less. Promises of reflected sporting glory, masquerading as a leather and foam engineering feat, aspiration cost much exceeding its value.

All to send me skidding across asphalt left with no more than a faint memory of moss, from rains two months old. My coop rises in sight, twin towers souring the scenic evening sky. Easy viewing, now that I rest on my back side. Adding insult is my neighbourhood’s latest addition, a fine lady of mysterious ways, staring me down through hazel eyes. To retrace, the brand new tread swept my feet off under me, nearly upending Her Grace out on her daily saunter. Fervent apologies were met with the kind of sceptic vibe only a certain Bush-WMD deserved. An intro I did not fancy. The resident Harry Potter groupies leave their whatever-kids-do activity and gape in unison. I wish Bumble Bore or whatever would appear and make me otherwise. The juveniles from the other end of the lot sport a resigned indifference. No likng fav shu hv2 rotf lyk dis. Unkind are the ways of this world.

Buyer’s remorse set in just as a nerve in my right ankle remembers to throb. Rooney, of the hauntingly vague look, at home with ManU and any on-pitch brawl, sure had me convinced. His life-size poster at the mall revealed not a strain as he motors away in his new laces. More evidence of vagueness, I presume.

I wonder if "FX" was designed for an 85 kilo blob with a lately suspect centre of gravity. Definitely not when he decides to traipse down a flight of stairs, and spin around at the landing. Not at this age, his gyro too rusted on the way past 30. Maybe in this age, I should tweet about skipping a few stairs, and then wisely use the elevator. Not too long ago, there was a lightness to my being. Literally. A sport shoe would readily complement my figure, a compliment to gauntness. Accessories shown did suit standard equipment. Unlike now, when they look more like leather vases, from which sprout twin shoots, coalescing into a jelly flower in full bloom. Technically, ‘Approaching Tubby’. The same might be said of Rooney, but a punch-up I’m in no shape or mood for.

As a kid, in his world of shoe-shod make believe, I used to be champ. A toe-poke suited to a Bergkamp. Ballet steps at backyard badminton. Sunday cricket attracted the ‘Azharuddin-at-point-with-slouch ‘persona. My trusted swoosh/stripe/affordable graphic giving wings to impressions gained from magazine covers, TV and fantasy. Ersatz with heart.

Now I’m up on one knee dusting the remnants of my pride. Redoing my laces elicit something of a sigh/grunt; any more toe touch & my flab is squash. Note to self: Let them know how much I’d appreciate Velcro. A fraction more moping later, we are up and about. The looker left a faint trace of parfum. The tykes are back to scream n’ shout. The juveniles, more like the World Union of Cool Football Jerseys, are on a passing game. One of them runs, traps, pivots and let fly, all in one go. Turning on a dime.

Been there, done that.

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