Dear Shoes,Shoes.

I’ll come right out and say it:   I’m concerned.  I’m not sure if you have incredibly swollen feet trapped in shoes made of lead, or if perhaps you are stricken with a disease that leaves you clomping around like a yeti, but either way I want to reach through the ceiling and punch you in the face.

I’ve lived below you for almost a year now, and at first I didn’t know of you at all.  You were just another tenant in this condo building with an assigned parking spot and a cute table and chair set out on the deck.

Oh Shoes, at first I thought it was a thunder storm, rolling and swirling in a spot strategically located above my kitchen counter.  Then I realized it was you and your fleet of horses (maybe it’s just one black lab) running back and forth across the length of your apartment floor (read:  my ceiling) at midnight.

I’m not the old lady who goes to bed at 9 o’clock at night, but I don’t regularly stay up until 3 o’clock in the morning, that is unless I’m lying in bed and listening to you go out on your deck and yell things to your boyfriend in the yard.  I hope he eventually admitted that he was “an asshole, do you know that?!” and that you let him come inside instead of making him “sleep underneath the mailbox” where he was welcomed to “die a lonely death.”

Oh my friend Shoes, I am a night owl.  I’ll admit to being up and writing until the late hours of the night, lit by the light of my laptop and brimming with ideas.  I’ll also admit that it’s tough to write when you’re clomping around like Sloth.

Occasionally, you bring me a small moment of comfort, like last night when I woke up at 4 am with a blood sugar of 52 mg/dl.  As I slid the straw into the juicebox I kept on the bedside table, I knew I wasn’t alone because I could hear you fighting with your boyfriend (who apparently wasn’t sleeping underneath the mailboxes).  Thanks for being there for me, Shoes.

For the most part, my neighbor friend, you do not cause me much grief.  Oh, I’ve seen your weird Gwen Stefani styled pony tail, where it looks all-too-similar to a mohawk, but I have faith that you’ll outgrow your style stumblings.  But there are occasions where I can’t help but wish you did not exist.

I have sincere hopes that a cure will be found for your heavy-footed affliction, which causes you to stomp around All.  Night.  Long.  If there is a walk I can contribute to or a pasta-and-meatball dinner I can attend to raise awareness for your condition, please don’t hesitate to ask me.

Otherwise, I’ll wait patiently for your lease to run up.