The pebble in your shoe

Photo by Adrian Yee

I went for my first run of the new year today.  I've laid off running for awhile in the hopes that a few injuries would resolve themselves.  In other words, I listened to the signs my body was giving me.  I listened.  Thanks to the loan of a knee brace, I'm back on the go.

On a day that I run from home (as opposed to running from responsibilities, running from work, running from life), I normally warm up by walking to the top of the hill that leads out of my neighborhood.  I figure, there's no sense in killing myself in the first thirty steps, right?

As I'm walking up the hill, I can feel a tiny (and sharp) pebble in my right shoe.  Ugh.  I hate that.  I really hate that.  Apparently not enough to remember to take care of it though because I'm not so much surprised to feel the pebble under the ball of my foot, but that I had forgotten to get rid of it the last dozen times I've worn these shoes.

I know that if I don't take it out of my shoe now, as it is just starting to bother me, I'll get used to the unpleasantness of it all.  So used to it that when I take the shoe off, I'll forget about removing the annoying pebble.  Thus begins an internal argument:

Me:  Stop walking now and just take the pebble out.

Me:  Not now!  Don't you realize how much time that will take, the trouble, the complete pain in the ass-ed-ness that will be?


Me:  Shut up, moron and take out the pebble.

Me:  But, I'll have to stop walking, take off my gloves, kneel down, untie the shoe, pull it off, take out the pebble (if I can even find it) while doing and awkward balance on one foot thingy, put the shoe back on, re-tie it, double knot it, get my gloves, stand up, and worst of all, make myself start walking up the hill again.


Me:  Seriously?

Me:  Yes.  Seriously.


Me:  Fine, but I told you so.

Me:  (scoffing and throwing my gloves down on the sidewalk before me)  No one tells me, "I told you so!" 

Out loud, I cry, "FINE!  Have it your way!"

I go through the elaborate set of steps listed above to remove the pebble (which is actually more like a shard of rock - super sharp!).  This takes me all of thirty seconds.  Standing up, I shout, "Happy now?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a flash of red.  I turn and am faced with a neighbor also out for a little exercise wearing a red knit cap to keep her warm.  What with my music and the full out internal war I've just battled, I had no idea she was walking behind me.  My cheeks flush the same pink as my frozen nose.  She looks at me with a mingled look of embarrassment and fear.  I give her what I'm hoping is a sheepish grin, but may have looked more like a grimace.  There was nothing else to do or say, so I turned around and decided I would just start running here rather than at the top of the hill.

Me:  Whose the moron now!  I told you I shouldn't have stopped for that pebble!
Me:  No one tells me, "I told you so!"  NO ONE!

So glad my reputation as the crazy neighbor remains safe.

The pebble in my shoe got me to thinking though.  How many other pebbles are under my feet and why on earth am I ignoring them?

In terms of writing, writing a query letter was a pebble that I kept in my shoe for a year.  A whole year.  It's a one page letter.  Three to five paragraphs max.   Charlie Hanson Finishes Last (and How the Universe Cheats) has 1,648 paragraphs (click here for an excerpt and here for another).  I didn't moan and whine and wretch over those paragraphs.  So why was I leaving the query pebble in my shoe?

Fear of making it all too real?

Recently, I sat myself down and refused to move until I'd written my query.  I'd done my research, chosen my agent of choice, read plenty of exemplary letters.  There was nothing stopping me except for the voice in my head that kept arguing about leaving the pebble where it was.

To which I had to ask myself, Seriously?

As in, are you serious about writing?  Because if you are, you're going to get some pebbles underfoot, and that's okay, but don't ignore them or pretend they aren't there.  Stop and take care of them.  Now.  Otherwise, I'm just going to have to say, See, I told you so.

What kinds of pebbles are you carrying around in your shoes?  Leave a comment to share.  Or am I the only crazy lady in the neighborhood?