Reebok Syndrome

When I was in grade three, my school gym shoes were an old pair of hand-me-down Reeboks.  They were legit pumped up kicks, the epic Reebok Pump Omni Lite runners.

Flippin' rad, totally awesome, wicked old school pumped up kicks.

And I hated them.

I'm not talking about dislike or joking hate, I'm talking about real, full force hate-hate.  The kind of hate oftentimes described as being with "every fibre of my being."  Passionate hate.  Irrational hate.  Unexplainable hate.

And that's the funny thing.  I couldn't explain why I hated them.  All I knew was that I did.  And because I hated them, I refused to wear them.  And because I refused to wear them, the teacher ended up calling my mom and telling her I needed gym shoes for school.  And because my mom got called, she ended up coming into the school to show the teacher I already had shoes.  And then I was confronted.  And I was speechless, yet resilient and refused to step down from my ivory tower of shoe hate.

To be honest, I don't even remember what happened after that.  I think my mom ended up buying me some $5 Walmart special runners and I was happy as a clam to have any shoes besides those infernal Reeboks.

Today, I'm still teased by my mom about this; she has diagnosed me with the "Reebok Syndrome."  Really, this syndrome has nothing to do with Reeboks (in fact, I would love a pair of those pumped up kicks today), it's mostly to do with my stubborn, defiant, and unwavering preconceptions, biases, and opinions.  This syndrome has reared it's ugly face during several occasions of my life.  In fact, it could also be named "Respiratory Therapy Syndrome"or "Basketball Syndrome."  Thankfully, I overcame those ones.  Unfortunately, last night I realized I've got the syndrome again.  I got it bad.  This time it's called "Marriage Syndrome."

The M-word?  Yup, not interested.  At all.  Ever.

I pride myself on having a cup half full perspective on life, but I'll admit when it comes to tying the knot, the cup is completely empty.  In fact, the cup sucks and it's cracked and doesn't even hold water at all.  Which is why I love being single so much...

So basically, I'm just letting you know that you can start giving me cats for my birthday and Christmas. Or, that you prescribe any treatments for this "Marriage Syndrome."  Or, you can send my mom a sympathy card because she has a dang, stubborn first-born.  Or, you can simply ignore this juvenile rant coming from a twenty-something who really just doesn't want to grow up.  I guess that's all this is.

Good night.