Friday Report: Size 9, please, and a shot of tequila
Some lessons we get early. I was just a little kid but I remember how unutterably cool I felt walking through the kitchen after a little playground ‘incident’ with the sole of one shoe completely torn off the upper. I was very proud of the unique, personal noise I had created. “Mom! Mom, look at the noise I made,” I cried, dragging my foot across the floor, ssh-flapp, ssh-flapp, ssh-flapp, with each step.
My mom screamed, “LOOK WHAT YOU’VE DONE TO YOUR SHOE!”
“Yeah,” I bragged with a grin. The moment that followed impressed upon me forever the different values men and women place upon footwear.
I used to think men and women were similar with the exception of a few plumbing alternatives. Time has shown me that women are actually quite the opposite of men, much more than I had originally thought. They are truly different. Since I married one, I can say with authority that they are aliens from a different galaxy sent here to confuse and confound Earth’s true children, the male race.
Recognizing that most women take somewhat longer than men to decide upon a shoe purchase, savvy retailers are locating their shoe stores near bars and in some cases, like Nordstrom, putting a full liquor bar smack dab in the middle of their shoe department, “Yes, my good man, I’ll have a Wild Turkey Manhattan, please, better make it a double, and, uh, why don’t you bring me a little something brown for the feet, thank you.”
It’s different with women. They’ll leave a trail of burnt, smoldering shoe salesmen searching for the ultimate shoe. It’s out there somewhere; they just need to find it. Get this: a woman will shop for a pair of shoes to match the imagined color of a not-yet-purchased dress, to wear to some function they haven’t decided whether to attend. That’s way too complex for the normal guy to follow, hence, the bar in the shoe store. Simplify, simplify.
Women enjoy buying shoes. Men need a barrel of beer to give up a pair with a hole in the toe. Take my wife, please. She’ll narrow it down to two pairs, each located in stores at opposite ends of the mall. This is the point where I begin roaring like a Howler monkey to go home, but for her, that’s when the hunt gets exciting. This kind of intensity frightens me, so I beg, “Would it be okay if I stopped for a delicious jug of tequila while you decide which pair you want?”
She says, “Of course you can’t, silly. How will I know which one you like best?”
I start sobbing in earnest, “Oh Baby, Baby, I love you, please, please, let me buy both pairs so we can go home.”
SHE SAYS, “Oh, well, actually, I only need one pair right now. I don’t think I’ll need another for three or four days.” SHE MEANS, “Of course I’m getting both pairs, but I’ve drug you all over this mall like a pull-toy until you beg to buy them so I don’t feel guilty about being extravagant.”
My wife thinks shoe shopping is a woman’s inalienable right.
See, there’s that alien thing again.
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