JOIN USIt's shoe time
All these inventors with nothing more to do than reinvent perfectly useful things and give them ideas above themselves. The latest is an intelligent shoe. I don't know about you, but I think that shoes need flexibility, comfort… certainly not intelligence.
The basic Key Result Area of all footwear is to be comfortable. Not to outthink, outsmart and outguess the wearer. It was an evil day when I bought this pair. Here I am trundling around the park, smelling the flowers and fresh dog poop, starting to feel good about getting out of bed this early, when my shoe decides to spoil my morning “Hey, fats lob... stop ambling like a tortoise with dyslexia “Huh? Who said that? I realise that it is my shoe trying to get a rise out of me.
"Shut up shoe," I tell it, very conscious of the covert stares that the fatties at the park are shooting my way." Quiet ! Just walk and don't talk"
You think it will give up ? “For your height, weight and basal metabolic rate, you should be doing at least eight kmph." I stomp my feet to silence this impertinent piece of moulded rubber. "Listen you son of a synthetic sole, I do not take instructions from a shoe."
"I have to suffer your excess weight at every step. It is my programmed duty to make you lose it.." By now the other walkers are looking speculatively, wondering whether to call the ambulance, Nimhans, or just walk away… fast. Enough is enough.
I try to kick it off... But the shoe is programmed not to give up. “Ha”... it smirks ,"you cannot get rid of me so fast. I have sensors to know exactly how your brain functions and I react before you act to discard me"
I jump on it with all my 70 kgs. "A mere shoe cannot be my conscience keeper. You have to know your place in life"
"You chose me," it says smugly, "to help you lose your flab. Lift your legs, lengthen that stride, tuck your elbows in your sides... now move!".
I huff puff my way home and tuck away the shoe into a forgotten corner of the wardrobe. Never again. There must be easier ways to lose weight. Next morning even as I am trying to catch that Richard Gere dream by its tail, I hear a clamour from the deep end of the wardrobe. The shoe is making an unholy racket to go for a jog.
I elbow the husband awake. "Please rid me of this wretched shoe. “I plead.”
" What shoe? You are having a nightmare", he says going back to complete his dream where Angelina Jolie is probably telling him some pretty censorable stuff.
Today I will put those shoes in the doggie den and let them fight over the destruction rights. In the final count it will be brawn over brain.