Fourteenie.

"Life is a lively process of becoming."
~ Douglas MacArthur

It smiles. The damned thing actually smiles. 

The chrome tilts slightly upward, revealing a fine craftsmanship; little bars sliding down into what resembles a large open mouth with long, straight, shining teeth. Twin rockets fly from what appears to be the fat lower lip, curving around it's face, becoming a monstrous, mirror-like jaw. Circled in silver, the headlamps of it's eyes droop down in an ominous stare, backed by horizontal lines and set one on top of the other. The rounded hood pulls back to reveal a bullet flying through a circle, sitting neatly on the edge of the curve, waiting for a moment of speed to solidify the illusion. 

Down it's midnight blue frame, four shiny portholes give texture to the flawless, waxed surface, and beyond the slightly squared side view mirrors and the almost precise window-level door handles, the script "Roadmaster" sits slightly above and before the rear wheel wells. The signature red circle around the R sits in contrast to the unmarred purity of the whitewall tires, lending a welcome light to an otherwise sinister-looking piece of machinery. 

The rear boasts eight signaling lamps, with the largest four looking like the tip of a 50's sci-fi death-beam, rounded, red and slightly coned.  Between each of these, which are on either side of the trunk, are two smaller, circular red lamps, and sitting plainly under the trunk, there are the two medium-sized white reverse lamps. Under even these is the back bumper, polished to a point that a nighttime driver's headlamps would probably blind them, were they unfortunate enough to get behind this force of nature.

The trunk itself is big enough to hold a family of four, should the need ever arise, with a spot carved out in the right-hand side for a full-sized spare. 

The interior is pristine. Both the front and rear bench seats are two-tone, midnight blue and white. The leather is oiled and shiny, neither cracked or bleached by sun. The lap belts rest lazily on the blue ridges, waiting on a passenger to protect. 

The steering wheel just ominously out of it's column, skinny and frail looking, with an old-fashioned wheel-mounted horn mechanism, the automatic shifter for the 2 speed V8 resting just behind. 

All of these things can be seen, touched, realized and observed, but nothing can describe the desire for the drive; the hunger for the open road. There are no words for the shift in momentum, the danger of testing the boundaries of speed and performance. 

As it sits, waiting for another chance at that open-ended freedom...it smiles. 

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Six pairs of shoes. 

Well, technically there are five pairs of shoes and one pair of boots. Well, if the Docs count as boots, even though they're low-topped, then there are four pairs of shoes and two pairs of boots. 

That means that there is a possibility of skateboard riding, hiking, motorcycle riding, hours of kitchen work, at least two marathons and probably (most likely) one bad fall in there somewhere. The fact that almost none of these things (save one) will ever happen isn't important. What is important, however, is that there is the possibility of these things. 

Shoes for style, shoes for work, shoes for play. Shoes meant for play that never get used for anything, lest they get dirty, shoes meant for one thing, used for another, shoes buried under piles of clothing, shoes getting tripped over in the dark. Shoes in the way of things, shoes that are lost, shoes that are found. There is at least one pair of shoes that are seriously running the risk of never being used again. 

Six pairs of shoes. 

If there are only four pairs of shoes and two pairs of boots, then are there too many pairs of shoes? Does having "too many" pairs of shoes only count if all pairs of footwear are taken into the equation? 

Shoes for dancing, shoes for standing your ground. Shoes for running away and running to. Shoes for walking the mile, and walking a mile in someone else's shoes. Put the shoe on the other foot, shoeing out the old, scrounging for a shoe horn, trying to make that good ol' pair fit one more time. 

A lot can be said about a pair of shoes. 

A pair of shoes can say a lot.