When we returned home from vacation this summer, my wife decided that she was going to start exercising. She encouraged me to join her but that would require me to actually leave the house and, frankly, I can't be away from my computer that long. I suppose I could use the web browser on my Treo in a pinch but it's so hard to walk and type at the same time. So Pamela had to recruit another victim of her ill-fated desire to combat our sedentary existence. That victim was our good friend Julie who made a similar pledge some months ago and, by the power vested in her by the almighty Dr. Phil, has gone from tuber to triumphant.
It was clear to me from the get go that this foolhardy desire to exercise was not going to end well. But it was not for me to say (and, for once in my life, I didn't). Julie arrived at our house to pick Pamela up for the first day of the rest of her life. Julie was prepared. She had sneakers with lots of support, comfortable clothes, a determined look in her eye. Meanwhile, Pamela came down the stairs in breathable but fashion forward clothing, holding a pair of sneakers that are perhaps only called that by virtue of their striped sides. They were marginally more sneaker-like than her brightly colored driving shoes, but I suspect the driving shoes would have been a better bet. When questioned about the prudence of her "athletic" shoes, Pamela offered up a pair of Puma wrestling shoes as an alternative. Truthfully, it was six of one, a half dozen of the other. So off she went in the original shoes, drunk with the idea of getting in shape.
I can not say what precisely transpired between when she left and when she returned but I can tell you that the aftermath wasn't pretty. After thirty minutes worth of walking in the Stanford foothills (she'll argue that it was more like an hour but I believe that's just because it takes much longer to limp up a hill than to walk), Pamela developed two of the largest blisters I've ever seen. She came home with half dollar sized abrasions on the backsides of both her heels. As the day went on, her blisters continued to grow. But Pamela was undeterred by the Pinocchio act going on on the back of her feet. She rushed off to Nordstrom to buy new sneakers (commerce in the name of health and well being). Unfortunately for Pamela, rather than sell her a pair of suitable walking shoes, the sales guy called over his buddy to see the worst blisters he'd ever seen (having the shoe sales guy tell you that you've got the worst blisters he's ever seen is a little bit like having the lady who sells birth announcements tell you that you're the biggest pregnant woman she's ever seen -- and Pamela's lived that too). To add insult to injury, Pamela couldn't even buy a new pair of shoes to bring her solace on the first and last day of her fitness kick.
Pamela's feet are well on the road to recovery. But it may be quite some time before she heads to the hills with Julie again. Which is fine with me. No matter how hard I type, I've never gotten a blister.