We barefoot runners are delusional. We let ourselves believe that: 1) barefoot running is perfectly safe, 2) it's the only viable option for the gazillion joggers injured every year, and 3) our family members will always support us. These beliefs are as wrong as your mother-in-law in spandex.
First, barefoot running is one of the most dangerous things you can do. You will lose most of your friends. Neighbors will avoid you. You will have worms burrowing through your feet and sticking out of your legs.
Second, a gazillion joggers cannot all start running barefoot. Who would keep Nike and the podiatrists in business? Imagine if you showed up for your club's weekly run and everyone gawked at you and asked, "Are you actually going to run in SHOES? Are you some kind of moron?"
Third and finally, family is supposed to be our anchor. When we struggle or stray, they are our baseline and our lifeline. They balance us. They support us. I always believed this. With all my heart. Until now.
My daughter, Julia, is nine-years-old. She is the little girl I always wanted. She's a true daddy's girl. She likes ribbons, earrings, reading, giggling with her friends, and cuddling with dad in front of the fire. She's smart as a whip. And she's always been my biggest fan. Until now.
It was a setup from the beginning. For Christmas Julia gave me one of the coolest presents ever. A board covered with plaster and various stones, sticks, and other materials you find on the ground. She arranged it in cool patterns between her actual footprints in plaster. And she wrote, "Walking Through Everything Together...Barefootjake and Barefootjulia." I cried when I unwrapped it.
A few days after Christmas, Julia invited a new friend, Victoria, over to our house. Before Victoria's arrival, we had this conversation:
Julia: "Um, dad, you have to change your sweatshirt."
Me: "Huh? Why?"
Julia: "Because it has rips and holes in it, paint stains, and a funny bird on it."
Me: "So?"
Julia: "My friend Victoria is coming over and you're dressed like a homeless person."
Me: "You want me to change for your friend?"
Julia: "Well, yeah."
Me: "Will there be evening gown and bathing suit portions of the competition?"
Julia: "Daaaddd. Geez."
Me: "You are nine, right?"
Julia: "So?"
Me: "Since when do you care what I dress like?"
Julia: "Victoria's dad doesn't dress like he's homeless. And you should change your pants, too."
Me: "What's wrong with these pants?"
Julia: "They look like pajamas."
Me: "These are my pajamas."
So I changed clothes and we drove to the train station to pick up Victoria. As she climbed in the back of the car, Julia made the introductions:
Julia: "This is my dad. He's from America, has saltwater fish, and runs barefoot. He's really weird.
Me: "Hi Victoria. It's nice to meet you."
Julia: "Oh, and he doesn't eat bread. Can you imagine?"
Victoria: "Why do you run barefoot?"
Julia: "He's getting old, so he's trying to be a kid again."
Me: "Did mom tell you that?"
Julia: "No, she told the neighbors."
Me: "Victoria, I run barefoot because it keeps me healthy and it's natural."
Julia: "My mom started running barefoot with him because she feels sorry for him."
Me: "Did mom tell you that?
Julia: "No, she told the neighbors."
Me: "Which neighbors?"
Julia: "All of them."
So that's it. My daughter had a choice between friend and dad. And she chose friend. We already know where her mom and brother stand.
So this is war. I will not retreat to lick my wounds. I will attack. Next time Julia brings a friend over, I vow to walk around in my boxer shorts, unshaven, scratching myself in various places. Burping and farting is now on the menu.
All beware the scorned barefoot runner.
*Posted here at BRS and at www.runbarefooteurope.blogspot.com
First, barefoot running is one of the most dangerous things you can do. You will lose most of your friends. Neighbors will avoid you. You will have worms burrowing through your feet and sticking out of your legs.
Second, a gazillion joggers cannot all start running barefoot. Who would keep Nike and the podiatrists in business? Imagine if you showed up for your club's weekly run and everyone gawked at you and asked, "Are you actually going to run in SHOES? Are you some kind of moron?"
Third and finally, family is supposed to be our anchor. When we struggle or stray, they are our baseline and our lifeline. They balance us. They support us. I always believed this. With all my heart. Until now.
My daughter, Julia, is nine-years-old. She is the little girl I always wanted. She's a true daddy's girl. She likes ribbons, earrings, reading, giggling with her friends, and cuddling with dad in front of the fire. She's smart as a whip. And she's always been my biggest fan. Until now.
It was a setup from the beginning. For Christmas Julia gave me one of the coolest presents ever. A board covered with plaster and various stones, sticks, and other materials you find on the ground. She arranged it in cool patterns between her actual footprints in plaster. And she wrote, "Walking Through Everything Together...Barefootjake and Barefootjulia." I cried when I unwrapped it.
A few days after Christmas, Julia invited a new friend, Victoria, over to our house. Before Victoria's arrival, we had this conversation:
Julia: "Um, dad, you have to change your sweatshirt."
Me: "Huh? Why?"
Julia: "Because it has rips and holes in it, paint stains, and a funny bird on it."
Me: "So?"
Julia: "My friend Victoria is coming over and you're dressed like a homeless person."
Me: "You want me to change for your friend?"
Julia: "Well, yeah."
Me: "Will there be evening gown and bathing suit portions of the competition?"
Julia: "Daaaddd. Geez."
Me: "You are nine, right?"
Julia: "So?"
Me: "Since when do you care what I dress like?"
Julia: "Victoria's dad doesn't dress like he's homeless. And you should change your pants, too."
Me: "What's wrong with these pants?"
Julia: "They look like pajamas."
Me: "These are my pajamas."
So I changed clothes and we drove to the train station to pick up Victoria. As she climbed in the back of the car, Julia made the introductions:
Julia: "This is my dad. He's from America, has saltwater fish, and runs barefoot. He's really weird.
Me: "Hi Victoria. It's nice to meet you."
Julia: "Oh, and he doesn't eat bread. Can you imagine?"
Victoria: "Why do you run barefoot?"
Julia: "He's getting old, so he's trying to be a kid again."
Me: "Did mom tell you that?"
Julia: "No, she told the neighbors."
Me: "Victoria, I run barefoot because it keeps me healthy and it's natural."
Julia: "My mom started running barefoot with him because she feels sorry for him."
Me: "Did mom tell you that?
Julia: "No, she told the neighbors."
Me: "Which neighbors?"
Julia: "All of them."
So that's it. My daughter had a choice between friend and dad. And she chose friend. We already know where her mom and brother stand.
So this is war. I will not retreat to lick my wounds. I will attack. Next time Julia brings a friend over, I vow to walk around in my boxer shorts, unshaven, scratching myself in various places. Burping and farting is now on the menu.
All beware the scorned barefoot runner.
*Posted here at BRS and at www.runbarefooteurope.blogspot.com
