Oh, For Crying Out Loud

So I have this not-speedy-quick "race" in one week and, in spite of my maddening injury, I'm getting pretty fired up about it.  My 7-miler yesterday didn't produce any serious pain and I figure tacking on another 6 miles next Sunday will be a breeze.  Right? Don't worry, I'm not delusional about this. I know for a fact that my body will not be pleased with me after this gig and will yap at me about it for some weeks after.  But it's worth it.

But then tragedy struck this evening.  Real, honest-to-goodness tragedy that would have brought me to out-loud cursing if the wee ones weren't around.  I was negotiating Annie and trying to scarf down my dinner of pasta when an errant, sauce-laden noodle fell off my fork, tumbled down my shirt, my jeans, and landed with a wet plop on my running shoes.  I took a deep breath before I glanced down at the crime scene, steadied myself, stole a peek, and...flipped out.

Keep in mind I am not materialistic (at least not very).  Example: only one of my pair of jeans has intact knees and, as much as I've tried, I can not seem to bring the ill-fitting, ripped jeans statement back to it's glamor of the 80's. Therefore, I just look like a hobo, walking around my not-so-shabby neighborhood with my torn pants. My other pair of regular, non-jeans pants has the seam coming apart in the rear-area, but I also don those babies on anyway.  Heck, I even wore them to church last Sunday.

But my running shoes!!!  Now those are an entirely different animal and I am borderline neurotic about my shoes. I normally would not be wearing them around the house so they only have running miles on them, but this ridiculous plantar fasciitis necessitates constant arch support (golly I sound old!).  And I have this freaking race coming up and can not handle taking one million strides in my kicks, seeing the horribleness of a stain every time my right foot plants.  Because, even if I scrub the daylights out of them (they are soaking in Oxi Clean as I write), we all know it's nearly impossible to get red sauce completely out. 

Slow, deep breaths. They're only shoes.  They're only shoes. They're only shoes. Millions upon millions of people don't even own shoes and I should not freak about mine.  I should not.  I will not.  And I'm going to have to repeat this over and over in my head for the next several days until I don't get a case of the shakes every time I see them.