saying and doing, wearing me out

montante; ink on paper (pages from an old math book).

On my way to get Oona yesterday, hiking up Queen Street, feeling pretty good about my review, when I looked down (always looking down -- it's the dipping territory of being tall) and noticed holes in my shoes. That took the gloss off.

Almost identical holes, one in each shoe, these tear-like things where the little toes are. This from a summer of no socks, and not doing laces (I'm a committed tuck-under artist, I'm afraid), and pushing Oona around like the Queen of Sheba.

I'm *always* wearing my shoes out, and it will only get worse now that I'm walking just under 7 kilometres a day again. C and I have a philosophical debate about this: she says I should spend more, so that the shoes last longer, while I reach for cheaper, and then don't care how long they last. Of course, with the cheaper stuff your feet occasionally break out in dime-sized spots, which then start marching up your leg, and then you have to call the Telenurse, so she can reassure you that you're not dying.

* * * * *

Someone left this very strange book on my desk yesterday, this worn-out little hardcover book filled with Hindi script and lots and lots of ads. Is this a warning? What's next ... a dead fish wrapped in a sari?