My Trusty Old Shoes; the Final Chapter

barry currin, stories of a world gone mad, beaverdamusa.comIf you read this column every week, first and foremost, bless you. I appreciate it.

And if you read it last week, you’ll recall I told about how I mistakenly left my trusty old backyard shoes out in the rain. I talked about how they had persevered for years and continued to serve their purpose well — even though they both were full of holes.

At the end, I even managed to twist the story into a metaphor for not taking things for granted.

I received a few nice comments and an email or two after it was published. I was all proud of myself.

And apparently, in the process of creating a literary gem which will surely become a classic and delight generations to come, I jinxed my shoes.

Now they’re in the garbage can in the garage.

I won’t go into detail about what happened beyond saying I stepped off the bottom step into a dark cellar of an old house, and what I thought was a solid floor wasn’t a solid floor at all.

I mentioned the shoes had holes in them, right?

And you know how much rain we’ve had this year, right?

Two plus two equals shoes in the garbage can.

I’m fairly squeamish about some things. I get grossed out, as the expression goes, pretty easily over a wide variety of subjects, sensations, sights and smells.

I don’t care for dealing with the cat’s hairballs or tomato hornworms.

I’m not a big fan of those television shows where the zombies walk around oozing goo from every orifice before getting their heads chopped off by the good guys.

I have a hard time listening to people talk about their medical problems. If you ever want to get rid of me, simply use a couple of words ending in “-oscopy” in the conversation, and I’ll just about guarantee you I’m going to get an important phone call in three, two, one…

I realized just how squeamish I am just the other day when the nurse at the dentist said, “I know this isn’t your favorite place to be.” 

I don’t know why she would say that. It’s not like I’ve ever curled up in the corner in the fetal position or anything.

For the record, it’s primarily the sound of the drill. It hurts my brain. It kills my soul.

Usually, however, I can manage to deal with whatever horrific — in my mind at least — situation the universe throws at me.

That’s what I did after I realized my shoes were beyond the point of no return. Once I was down in the cellar, I even forced myself to stay down there long enough to figure out what was causing the problem.

I did not, however, choose to stay down there long enough to fix it.

That’s what professionals are for. I’m merely creating jobs.

When I got back above ground and outside, I looked down and pronounced my shoes dead on arrival.

Then I proceeded to scoot around in the grass trying to dry my feet the way a dog rolls around on his back when he’s trying to get rid of the smell of shampoo.

I skipped lunch.

The good news is, the professionals have come and gone, and the cellar is once again suitable for human contact.

The bad news is, I’m going to have to go back down there, because I have to finish the job that took me down there in the first place.

Sorry, folks, no metaphors today. It’s just about me and a flashlight.

About Barry Currin

Barry tries to be funny and poignant, and he's usually satisfied when he succeeds with one or the other. (Being both is awesome. And sometimes that happens.) Email him:

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