Something about my stoplight coloured shoes just seems so appropriate. So fast. I have this sinking feeling the next model will be pink, because shoe manufactures seem to get twitchy if they go more than three seasons without forcing women to wear pink.
My friend has this theory that people run like they drive. She jokes that she’s always accidentally swerving into people and cutting them off. I tend to agree with her theory (but not with her driving assessment – she delivered me safely and on time to a race without a single harrowing moment and for that I am grateful).
There’s the guy who just has to pass, only to slow as soon as they get in front.
There’s the guy who guns it at the start, wasting all that gas, and the guy who slams on the brakes with no notice.
There’s the constant lane changers, the tailgaters, the walkers in the run lane.
There’s the guy who cuts you off to get to fuel, the guy with bad music blaring, the guy who guns it through the yellows, and the guy who wants to be faster than the machine can handle.
There’s many more guys I could name, but I’ve just eaten 25% of my body weight in chocolate and my neurons are firing 75% slower and I’m slipping into a sugar coma.
Title: The Spoons – Romantic Traffic. 1984.