Wet Socks

‘Wet Socks’ pretty much sums up how I’m feeling about where I am in life right now. For so many reasons, and I promise I’m going to elaborate!

Before I visited my Mum in Alaska I took this photo. Actually, this was taken in the airport at Anchorage. I’d been travelling for what felt like hours, and it was just before the last leg of my journey before I could relax. I’d bought Mum a crafting magazine, seeing as there are none available to buy in Cold Bay itself, and after wandering around the shops, treating myself to a Mountain Dew and trying to stay awake for something like 8 hours I decided it was the perfect time to take a picture.


Broken Shoes. :(

Back then it had just amused me that I’d managed to traverse the globe (sort of) with the same pair of trainers. They kept my feet dry in San Fransisco, been filled with sand in Hawaii, gotten lost in a shoe cupboard in New South Wales, seen miles of Melbourne paths and they looked like they might be seeing their last plane journey.

I still haven’t replaced them.

Trying to justify spending money on a pair of trainers seems like a difficult job for me, but I think it’s in the actual act of finding a pair of trainers I like, for a decent price, which are cruelty free but also inexpensive and good at keeping my feet dry. It’s not particularly that I feel attached to them, not in the slightest! It’s very frustrating when on a day like today in Lincoln it has been raining constantly.

If it hadn’t been for a very early coffee date at 8.15am (I can do it! – shocked myself), I probably wouldn’t have left the house at all. The last time I left a house to go out whilst it was raining was probably either to run to the car, or because it wasn’t rain but snow – which I suppose is cheating because I had specified rain and not precipitation.

Anyway, the point is. By the time I got home, with coffee in my belly, vegetables from the market in my bag, and a stack of notes I’d been writing in another cafe (I’m addicted), my feet were wet.

My feet weren’t just wet in the sense that the shoes on my feet were wet, no my flesh and blood feet were soaked. Wet socks are one of my least favourite things. Although they do feature pretty low on my list of ‘things I don’t like’, when you have them it’s unpleasant. All morning I’d managed to avoid getting water into my shoes. I navigated puddles, kept close to buildings, and even tried hard to fold my trousers up so they didn’t drag on the floor.

I guess on my way home it stopped becoming a matter of preservation and more a pressing desire to get out of the bloody rain and home so I could get a shower and warm up again. By the time I did, it felt a lot like I housed a swimming pool for ants in the bottom of my shoes that had to close down due to a collapsed roof and other structural damage. It probably had nothing to do with the hole in my shoe, and more to do with the weather, the trousers I’d chosen to wear (and I would make the same choice all over again given the chance!).

I’d already starting writing up this blog post in my head as soon as I got in, and risked the chance of completely forgetting my train of thought in favour of a shower and warmth. There was supposed to be some kinda sorta clever metaphor and moral to the story but it all feels far too cliche so I’ll leave the matching and connecting of mental health and the hole in my shoe up to you.

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