Saturday, November 24, 2012
the crazy man and the mystery of his shoe size
The Sober Husband needs new slippers and new sneakers, but somehow over the nearly five decades of his life, he has avoided learning his shoe size. I buy his clothes for him, but he's on his own foot-wise. "If you only managed to learn your shoe size, you'd live in a wonderland," I nagged him the other day, "where I'd keep a stack of slippers for you. Like when you said you needed new pants, and I told you to look in your dresser, and there was a pile of them I bought when they were on sale."
We were walking through the Castro when we had this conversation, and the Sober Husband suggested that he walk up a block to visit a store which sells garish sneakers as well as campy t-shirts to get his feet sized. I vetoed that suggestion. "Stores like that don't measure your feet," I explained. "They rely on you to know your size when you go in. Normal people know what size their feet are. Iris and I know what size our feet are." We sneered superiorly.
The Sober Husband was unconvinced.
The following day, while Iris and I were taking in a matinee of "Seven Psychopaths", the Sober Husband and Lola stopped by that same store in the Castro in an attempt to get his feet sized. "You were right," he admitted; the store didn't even possess a shoe sizing board. "They treated me like I was a crazy man. I think they thought I was insane."
It was a double victory for me, as the Sober Husband had predicted that "Seven Psychopaths" would be too gory and upsetting for Iris, but in the end she had, as I'd known, enjoyed the movie.
The sad part is this was probably the highlight of my entire year: having a laugh at the expense of my usually better-than-me spouse due to my superior knowledge of how to buy shoes. It's all downhill from here.