Some days, I pretend like I’m very brave. I’ll pack a backpack full of provisions for five days and tell my sister I’m heading off to the woods alone, she’ll ask if I get scared, and I’ll reply, “Pshaw, what’s there to be afraid of?” Then I’ll stomp around in the mountain pass in the dark, and have a heart attack every time I hear a twig snap.
Other days, I don’t even pretend. The weather is getting nice out and riding a bike around in close-toed shoes creates sweaty unhappy feet. Still, I’m deathly afraid of riding in open-toed shoes because I know I will scratch my toes off.
Last night, I went to pick up some mushroom (mushroom is the new steak) at the neighborhood hippie market. While I was parking my bike, some gal walked up to her bike in flipflops. I openly admired her bravery, “Wow, how do you ride in those flipflops? I’m scared I will sand all my toes off.” She smiled and replied, “Funny you should ask that, I just scratched up the side of this foot.” I looked at the scab on her left foot and shuddered.
I was that same person that wrecked her bike going 2 mph, if I happened to be wearing flipflops at that time, I would have amputated my left foot then too.