Japanese space-age "sneakers"

I went running this weekend. Twice. About 12 miles total. If this insanity keeps up, I may have to get some running shoes. The sneakers I bought because they make me look like a Japanese pop star may not, in fact, be sneakers. The pair I bought because they're shiny, well, they're sneakers, all right, but if they're meant for a sport, which is dubious, it certainly isn't running.

In other news, Julie Saltman responds to my post on being an out-of-place New Yorker in what may or may not qualify as exurbia. She writes, "I'm obviously a blue stater at heart but I always feel like I stand out as a total hick in New York City, and I even wear black on a regular basis." As I wrote in her comments, I, too, feel like a hick in NYC. At home, yes, but still hick-ish. The people you think of when you think of New Yorkers are the people who grew up elsewhere but always secretly felt like they should live in NYC, the ones for whom NYC is an end goal, not a hometown. From too-beautiful-to-be-true gay men to well-put-together women from Parsons, the people who make the city cutting-edge are not the ones who just happen to have been born in it. I mean, I try, but when it comes down to it, you'll find me at the sale rack of Banana Republic before you'll find me at SoHo House, Japanese sneakers notwithstanding.