In the meanwhile, pray for my shoes.
This is the story of why I can't have nice things.
A mere month ago, Michael came home with a present for me. Travel slippers/ninja shoes. Tomato/Tomato (turns out that phrase doesn't lend itself to the blog format). And I loved these shoes. I hugged them, I kissed them, I called them George.
They were the perfect house shoe. They kept my feet cozy-warm and, Michael's favorite part, were far more stylish than the orange fuzzball slippers that up until this point were the mainstay of my daily uniform.
So naturally, I never wanted to take them off. Ever.
Going to bed? As a ninja!
Need to feed the dogs? Ninjas are animal lovers.
It's Tuesday and the garbage needs to go out? You've never seen anyone take garbage out so sneakily.
Turns out, taking out the garbage was more precarious than I initially anticipated. You see, ninja shoes and concrete driveways are not lovers.
One trip to the sidewalk and my ninja shoes were showing signs of fatigue. The traction bottom of the slippers were being torn away by the abrasiveness of the concrete.
But because I am
And pretty soon, there was no traction, grippy stuff at the bottom of the ninja shoes. And guys, do you know what?
Ninjas totally need traction.
Before (full of sticky traction goodness):
After (traction eaten by malicious driveway):