I think I wore velcro shoes until I was eight or ten. Coolness wasn’t the factor—it was about efficiency. Tying shoes took my little hands so much time when there is so little to spare.

So it was zhipsh zhipsh or whatever onomatopoeic noise those garish straps made, and off I went, twelve to twenty-two seconds faster than my two-tie-shoelaced-peers. The New Balance heels were crushed too within a month, victim of a refusal to un-zipsh twice just to re-zipsh twice more. What a waste. Not of shoes. Of time, lost by others to shoelace purgatory.

Just where was I going in those twice-velcroed shoes? And fast, too; my quickest official quarter-mile time is still kindergarten me, zipping around the Caltech track in my tangerine orange drawstring gym shorts at a 1:30 clip, five seconds faster than my second-best friend and seven seconds slower than the girl who would transfer and then end up at MIT.

I guess I was running in circles, around that track once a month, around the dirt beneath the avocado tree, around the block that went up, more up, down, flat, and then up again. One time I tripped, hit the pavement middle forehead first, and woke up with a concussion, but it sure wasn’t because of non-existent shoelaces. As usual, that was in the midst of chasing neighbors while wielding wooden sticks that were realer than the “real” plastic lightsabers Toys R Us peddled at $89.99 a pop because you could swing them full ten-year-old strength without plastic bending out of shape. And they made a satisfying twack sound that only wood can, which sounds cooler than cheap red plastic on cheap blue plastic.

Our greatest problem was we were bored. The solution was to get up, zipsh-zipsh and run around until we fell down, exhausted and laughing and pleading with our moms for five more minutes.

Sitting eating spicy pork stew alone in a restaurant about a two-minute drive in the car I don’t have in the middle of Jeonju is probably an odd time to recall this. I certainly look odd—Kindle Paperwhite in one hand, chopsticks in the other, trying to eat the purple rice one grain by one grain to slow myself down. Enjoying this solitary meal, even if it means putting the metal chopsticks without a single morsel of food on it to my mouth about one in four tries.

There are two tiny oval grains of the purple rice that have fallen off the edge of the round stainless steel bowl, and I glance away from the e-paper screen to carefully pluck them off the table, because what a waste…of time later, should I have to clean it up after the meal.

What a contradiction, I know. To justify picking up two grains of rice now by saying it’s to save time later. All the while eating the entire bowl, one sticky grain at a time. Just fiiiiiive more pages. Old habits, as old as my first velcro shoes, die hard.

Shoelaces created a new excuse for not going outside anymore. Untying and tying, knotting and double-knotting—the outdoors’ newest barrier to entry. Of course, after-school Algebra I and present participles pilfered precious playtime of the past, but this, this was the string that broke the camel’s back.

It’s not worth it. Just stay inside.

Some days now I feel like one giant shoelace. Impossibly knotted, bow-tied wrong, over-under where I should be under-over, or untied while I am trying to walk.

It’s not worth it. Just stay inside. Don’t go for it.

And so I stare at my shoes, wondering whether they are going to stay tied, instead of running—sprinting—for what I know I want. I try to save time now so that I have more time to go for it later. Then I don’t go for it later because my mind is untied.

Maybe I should wear velcro again. Zipsh-Zipsh, and I’m off. No excuses. No shoelaces to trip on. Just me, the track, and that girl that’s going to get into MIT that I’m always seven seconds behind.