There is a nail that stubbornly works its way up out of the hardwood little by little right at the doorway of our bedroom. I step on it every time I walk in, and every other time I walk out. Every so often I get fed up and hammer it back in, only to fell it poking me again a week later.
A while ago I was feeling fed up, but lazy. I asked The Little Red Haired Girl to get the hammer and deal with “that damned nail,” and was greeted with puzzlement. She had no idea what I was talking about. Apparently she never steps on it. Her feet are bigger than mine, and I’m fairly certain she makes twice as many trips as I do in and out of the room just in her morning ritual. How has she never encountered the nail?
There are two hallways from which one can reach our bedroom, and no matter which one I’m coming from I always manage to step on that nail, and The Little Red Haired Girl always manages to avoid it. My theory is that, because of our strides and size of our feet or something, we must always travel the same paths, practically in our own footprints. If we spent a week walking around with paint on the bottoms of our feet, the floors would not be covered in paint, but instead there would be two paths, one women’s size 7.5 and another women’s size 10 (or something) going back and forth between all the rooms. Maybe we should try it the week before we move out of here.