Men and women have very different outlooks on shoes. I survived quite well with only one pair, most of my life. For a brief time after buying a new pair I will be the owner of two pair. I can’t seem to get rid of the old ones. They will have holes, stains and rips in them, but deserve to be used until the end. It has something to do with those 10,000 screaming, hungry Chinamen my mother talked about when I was a boy. Whatever happened to them, does anyone know? I heard the number was around 457,000 now, but opted to not saddle my kids with that information. A lot of good it did, Sally Struthers did it regularly on our television. I feel for them, but they never justified eating broccoli and still do not.
In the first month of my new marriage I have become the proud, but slightly concerned owner of five pairs of shoes, I only have two feet. I have never understood why a man wants more than one wife; you can scarcely keep up with one. It’s the same with shoes; every time I leave the house I fear that the other four pairs are lonely, dejected, or depressed. I fear we need a shoe counselor. My wife has about 200 shoes, what can two cute little feet do with 200 shoes? What do the shoes talk about when the door is closed? I’ve tried to calculate the investment; it boggles the mind. The bright side of the shoe thing, she had them when we met. A house full of furniture is one thing, 200 shoes; well I’d never have gone for that.
Now to that closet where the shoes are living in dejection and where the counselor we hired has all but taken up residence. It is a big walk in closet, if you look real hard and I’m convinced the counselor has, you will find the shoe box in the left rear corner where my stuff is stored. She has a closet full of clothes, but somehow comes up with a reason to borrow mine. Ok she’s cute in my stuff, so I’m going to let this one go. Still, if she can wear mine, I should be able to wear hers. I have had my eye on a cute little pink number, but just cannot wiggle fifty years of biscuits into it. I just wanted to wear it while I cooked!
I found myself in need of a couple pairs of work pants this week. I mentioned it to her, and she insisted we stop by the Goodwill store; it’s a good place to buy work clothes. After buying groceries, we stopped in. I never stop anywhere after buying groceries, as the investment is so high I want them comfortably in the refrigerator as soon as possible. “It will only take a moment.” She said. It was eighty degrees outside and probably one hundred and forty in the car as we shopped for two pairs of pants. How long could it take? Two pairs of pants turned into two work, two dress and two pair of jeans. Then she started on shirts, we ended up with about twenty then she added a winter jacket to the cart. It appears she likes to shop, who she is shopping for matters little.
I should have arranged the chops and veggies in a casserole dish as they were cooking in the van while we shopped. Once we had enough clothes to cloth the original 10,000 Chinamen, we headed for the one spot where men just do not go, in a store, the dressing room. We know our sizes, we can read and we look at our shirts to size them. We are almost never wrong. Ok, Ok we are often wrong; still you just don’t go in dressing rooms in front of others. I went in taking only the four items allowed. About the time I was undressed, she opened the door and entered with the remaining fifty others. Yes, I’m spending time in the closet with the counselor after this. Others keep a lawyer on retainer, I need a counselor. Signs and rules on dressing room doors mean little to South Americans, it appears. We had a great time and laughed out loud for a few minutes as I tried things on. Finally, an older woman broke out laughing in the next stall. After laughing for a few minutes, she apologized and said she had held it as long as she could. We had a twenty minute conversation with her, never seeing her at all. We got home and found out most of the clothes we had bought, would not fit in my shoe box and after washing and folding them neatly placed them in the pile intended to go to the Goodwill store. Life is good.