God I hate you so much. You are the bane of my life. All shiny and happy with your fancy stripes and colors.
"Oh, look at me." you seem to yell out "Look how comfortable I am!" Naturally I am drawn to your sleek lines and promises of fast running. I see myself putting on a pair and running along the tops of clouds on my way to a magical realm where marathons are easy and every run is a new PR.
First the box is opened. Delicately the tissue paper is peeled back to reveal your splendor as you slumber in your box just waiting to provide me with hours of running joy. I pick you up, gently remove the paper inside that helps you maintain your figure (a girls gotta look good!) and lace up your last two eyelets. Sometimes you have a big anti-theft tag attached to you, don't worry baby, it's nothing to be ashamed of; you're still sexy.
Just for a moment I cradle the shoe, the anticipation building. This is it, this is pair I have been searching for. My quest is at an end, I have found the perfect pair. I slowly slip the shoe onto my foot, barely able to breathe. The soft insole rises up to meet my toes, the tongue gives way as I move my foot further into the shoe. Every stitch is felt, every seam explored, every texture sampled. Finally it is on, fully encasing my foot. Is this the one? Could it be?
Daaaaaammmnit! Too tight. Too loose. Heel sits funny. Weird bump rubbing my foot. Etc and fucking etc.
I rip them off, stuff them back in the box. "Next" I call to the salesman who scurries off to the dungeon for another pair.
And then he is back, holding another box of shoes. This is it, this is pair I have been searching for...
Repeat until all pairs have been tried on. Leave store empty handed. Fuck you shoes, I hate you.