Dragging myself out, I walk in a daze out into a cold fog and down to the park. Wiping the sleep from my eyes I veer off the path into the wet-sponge grass. My feet instantly get soaked, affirming my theory that once your feet are wet, the day is shot. It's time to go back to bed. I feel the sogginess seep into my new, white socks. I look down at my old, sad sneakers, thinking to myself that they are past their prime. I feel like an alien on a planet of someone else's choosing. I shrug it off—not enough coffee I suppose. Then I look up. Something is different.

I squint out into the cottony distance. The local traffic signal is glowing like a space ship. Emerald green. The glow is steady and I wait for it to turn red. It doesn't. A minute seems like an endless mediation. It's still green. The whole damn world is green. I wait. There are no cars, no birds, no sounds. Just green. Finally, a car creeps slowly forward. The cotton fog muffles its engine. Its only sign of life is the white vapor coming from the tailpipe. The car doesn't stop. The light is still green.

I finally realize that the light won't turn red until a car approaches the intersection from the side road that leads to my house. I give up waiting and go back to the paved path. A seagull squawks at me and wakes me from my trance. I look back and see that the light has finally turned crimson. A instant that seemed like forever had passed. Thinking, with gratitude, about a fleeting moment where the world was green, I forget about my wet feet. I walk three miles and prove that wet feet don't always ruin a whole day. By the time I reach home the light turned green again and my feet are dry.