Last spring, I needed a pair of tennis shoes, real tennis shoes, for real tennis. See, I had lofty plans to meet another middle-aged mom to revive my game and to experience midlife renewal on Saturday mornings.

I needed new tennies, but baby also needed a new pair of pumps for the prom. So guess who subjugated her desire for new athletic footwear?

That is until I spotted a nifty pair on sale at my favorite shoe outlet. For a measly ten bucks, I became the proud owner of the most pimped-out pair of tennis shoes this side of Wimbledon.

Each shoe features eight gold embroidered tennis balls; seven silver and gold embroidered racquets (What a fashion faux pas! Besides ‘Don’t wear white after Labor Day,’ my mother said never to mix gold with silver in an ensemble); two embossed red blobs which were either blood droplets or chafed testicles; the word “TENNIS” embroidered in gold then outlined in black; one green oval with a tail that looks like the Catholic fish symbol which Protestants have now conscripted into use; two gold lamé laces; one line-art net; and a partridge in a pear tree.

Upon returning home, I immediately stuffed them in a canvas shoe holder in my closet where they sat for three weeks straight.

Lest you think I had not put them to good use, think again. Each time I opened my closet door before the sun came up, those sneakers illuminated my wardrobe choices without turning on the light and waking up my husband.

I decided that my sneakers and I needed a public life. So I donned my truly tasteless sneakers to school during Fitness Week. I realized how hideous these shoes were when a seventh grader who wears more bling than Jacob Marley sighted my feet glowing in the hallway from half a city block away and gave me a hollah.

“Yo, Mrs. M.! Those shoes are bangin’.”

She noticed my footwear before she noticed my Allen Iverson jersey and backwards Sixers’ cap.

That’s some powerful sneaker mojo workin’.

I have decided to wear them in public, unapologetically. I’ll start this morning with my orthodontist, documenting the feedback I receive, such as how long it takes adults to notice them versus children. Then I’ll record all comments and create a pie graph with a really colorful legend. Plus, if people are looking at the metallica on my feet, they are less likely to notice it in my mouth. We forty-somethings with braces don’t really want people to notice we have enough metal in our mouths to tune in A Prairie Home Companion.

You might be asking why? Why not just go play a match with the things?

As it so happens, I am recovering from a silly hip accident, a casualty of Fitness Week. I dislocated it leading an aerobics challenge with my eighth graders. So, until my hip fully recovers, this is how I am gleaning the value out of my ten dollar expenditure.

In the meantime, I plan to scour the outlets for other pimped-out apparel to wear courtside.

If I can’t dazzle them with my serve, blinding my opponents with flashy garb will have to serve.