Do you remember my post from yesterday?
You know, the one in which I complained that I didn’t have anything quite epic enough to write about for Epic Fail Friday?
Obviously, you know what this means…
An immediate epic fail was born.
Don’t complain about something unless you actually want it to happen. Universe, you are a clever trickster!
This is my bowling shoe.
Approximately two hours before this picture was taken by yours truly (note the excellent photography skills) I was psyched because I not only realized that I hadn’t thrown away my ancient bowling shoes like I thought I did, but I actually located them in, of all places, my under-bed shoe rack and would never have to pay $3 to rent bowling shoes again! Amazing!
Earlier that day I’d sent Ted a text whining that I needed new bowling shoes because I didn’t have mine anymore and paying $3 to rent bowling shoes is asinine. Lo and behold my friends, ask and ye shall receive, seek and ye shall find.
Off I went, new found shoes and all, to Cherry Grove Lanes to bowl ten games (let me repeat that in case you missed it…ten games) for $15 in an hour and half. What? Doesn’t everyone spend their Friday nights alone bowling until their fingers bleed?
Did I mention it was cosmic bowling?
It was :-)
As I was saying, ten games. I was on game number eight, full of youthful stamina and having myself a grand old time when the entire sole of my right bowling shoe decided to peace out. Take a hike. Go on vacation.
Okay, that’s cool.
I’m a trooper. And the night is young! And I’ve still got a full hour left to cram as many games into my $15 as I possibly can. Who cares that I’m now a good two inches taller on my left side, lopsided, and look like a goon? Not I, obviously. Have you seen what I wear to work? The show must go on.
And on it went. I bowled a 122 – my best score of the day!
Put that in your pipe and smoke it broken shoe. Oh and P.S. – It’s called shoe glue and I have some. Not so clever now, are you?
Somewhere around the end of game nine my broken shoe, Righty, had had enough of smoking his pipe. Righty, I assume, had a little chat with Lefty and before I knew it, I was left utterly and completely sole-less while my two bowling shoe soles were sipping cherry cokes and catching some black light rays underneath the stage left stool.
I, in the meanwhile, was bowling in nothing more than ballet slippers and basking in the deja vu of a certain pair of roller blades from, oh I don’t know…1997?, whose wheels broke apart into multiple pieces mid-stride not three weeks ago.
My possessions need to stop communicating with one another.
After game ten I decided it would be prudent of me to tempt fate no more, even though I still had a full thirty minutes left with which to sucker every last game out of my fifteen bucks. I gathered what remained of my shoes, and my dignity, and left a mere five games shy of my $1 a game cosmic bowl-a-palooza.
Laaaaame.
I texted Ted insisting that I needed new bowling shoes.
Again.
The moral of the story is this: It would behoove you to replace, or use for that matter, your crap more frequently than once every fifteen years if you want it to function.
If you’re looking to rid yourself of some roller blade wheels or bowling shoes, you know where to find me. Lopsided chick, lane 29.
The End.
