A Walk in My Shoes

It’s a usual foggy morning in early March in Marin County, a peaceful province of just over 200,000 residents nestled among rolling grass green hills north of the Golden Gate. Although the fog fails to wake my sleepy self, I push back piles of warm blankets, roll out of my twin sized bed, and muster up enough effort to strap on my no-longer-sunshine-orange-mud-caked tennis shoes for what feels like an early morning hike (mind you, it is really 10 am). With the sound of a horn loud enough to wake the entirety of my sleepy Maple Hill Drive neighborhood and the wafting smell of fresh morning coffee, I am out the door and off to meet my early riser and far too athletic boyfriend Dominic, who insists the day is wasted waking up anytime after 8 am. As I force down a slice of buttered whole wheat toast to gain some much needed energy, our oh-so-Marin County Prius drives us through the characteristic green sprawl to the zooming 101 freeway.