More like another nickel. Maybe.
It's a Friday morning and precisely 5:40 AM; and just like always I am woken up by the feeling of my privacy being invaded. It's Nancy and she's going for her early morning jog. And who better to accompany her than me?
You may be wondering who I am. I could tell you I am a fancy Italian sports car. Or perhaps a stylist red pea coat, ready to class up Nancy's day. I could tell you these things, but if there's one thing my father, Arthur Sole, taught me, it's honesty.
Well, here's the truth: I'm a shoe. Me and my brother Arnold. We live in a Manhattan household with our owner Nancy, a single woman with nothing better to do than go jogging twice a day.
Clarification: Jogging with us.
Not that I'm complaining, but Nancy has a habit of not showering before she wears us. Even though it's six in the morning, she could at least freshen up a bit. How would you feel if someone stuck their smelly feet in your mouth?
Not that I'm complaining, but I'd like to sleep in once in a while. Every single morning she slips her fat feet into me and my brother and tramples on us for half an hour. Sometimes she even wears us to work, and then comes home and jogs with us again.
Have I mentioned that she works in an elementary school? Think of all the grimy, gross things that could spoil my beauty should they make their way onto me. And the kids...all the day I hear their whining. "Mrs. Nancy! Mrs. Nancy!", "I hurt my finger!", "WAAH! Thomas pushed me!". All day long that insufferable noise.
And absolutely no cleaning. I can't think of the last time that me or Arnold have been washed. Nor my aunts Coco and Chanel, her high heels, whom she wears to work when tennis shoes just aren't classy enough.
UGH! That's my cue. "Left food forward! Do as I say!" she commands mercilessly. Not that I'm complaining.
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