How my daughter and son ruined my new shoes... Several years ago, when I was still paying child support and really tight on money, I purchased a pair of white Nike shoes with a silver (almost chrome) colored swoosh. There were on sale and I was excited about the purchase, similar to that of a young child when they are sure their new shoes make them “run faster…” You know what I’m writing of, the child runs back and forth in the front yard and insists the new shoes make them run faster. I had that type of excitement. But, really, I bought the shoes because they reminded me of KSwiss, a model that is hard to find in my size, and much more expensive. Now, I have to admit, with a bit of trepidation, that the shoe style I selected was a bit “cheerleader-ish…” But I wasn’t looking to sport some pompoms at the nearby football stadium. I was attempting to be stylish within my age group. You see, men my age wore white tennis shoes, with just a touch of color. The criteria had been set: A little color, an odd shoestring wrap, and a hard base was the shoe fashion. Without this ideal (style and age) in place and widely accepted, NewBalance would have been out of business a long time ago --Think about it: all the science and engineering of NewBalance ends up on older men’s feet, who do well at finding a half-priced buffets, but not much more…These patrons of NewBalance certainly aren’t running marathons, or even walking in one. Back to the story -- I wore the new shoes for two days and felt as though I was walking on a cloud of style that only the most opulent of our society was accustomed. These weren’t common shoes. These were nice, awesome, and special. They were Nike’s with a silver swoosh (almost chrome) colored for crying out loud. Don’t see those every day! At any rate, before I met up with my son and daughter for our yearly vacation together, I was delighted to sport my new kickers in the airport and at the airport bar. I even took the opportunity to show off my new shoes to the young lady in the seat next to me on the airplane. She was impressed – this I’m sure. One only gets that kind of smile from a stranger when they are wearing some top notch kickers. I mean, they were Nike’s with a silver (almost chrome) colored swoosh – babe magnets on the feet. Right? So I get the kiddo’s, the Britt and the Bry. We arrive at the hotel in Virginia Beach and, still proud of my recent purchase, I asked Brittany what she thought of the shoes, the kickers, the babe magnets on the feet?… I even suggested we lock the door to prevent what must be, by now, a paparazzi gathering outside. Certain she would affirm my already, well formed, well founded, well researched results… “Dad, they look like girl cheerleader shoes.” She said point blank as only a 14 year old could. And, I mean point blank. It wasn’t a salvo, it was a direct shot. A piecing shot through the emotional heart of a delicate and soon to be shoe-less man. That very moment, she ruined those shoes for me. Then, my son did the opposite of what I expected, (keep in mind, these two never agreed on anything). He said, “Yeah, I think those are girl’s shoes dad.” That day forward, during our vacation, I wore my flip-flops, too embarrassed that my kiddos might be spot on in their conjecture. Then I thought back in time, to when I was in the airport. Were they babe magnets or some other type of magnet? Were they why the male stewardess wanted to “exclusively” ensure I was buckled in, safe and sound? How many complementary peanuts can one man eat? And for the love of God, why peanuts? And for the love of God, why did I have sudden impulses to perform back flips? In subsequent vacations, Britt, Bry, and I joked about the shoes. Inside jokes like Brittany's broken knees or Bryan's relentless need to murder sand crabs we had captured in the early morning hours. Of course, Bryan would pile on if Brittany left any slack in the joke session. And, other than that vacation, I never wore them again, they sat in the closet – I was too self-conscience to wear them in public. Fast forward eight years later -- Yesterday, I gave the shoes to the local GoodWill along with some clothes. The lady at the back door collecting the items asked, “Is there anything wrong with the shoes?” “No,” I said. “They look brand new?” “They didn’t match my pompoms.” I said jokingly. Then I told her this tale. She laughed, and suggested I post it on facebook. Then she said, "Honey, you shouldn't worry. Most men your age don't even think about back flips, much less doing one. In my book, you can wear any shoe you want.” And, I thought about taking the shoes back – My daughter’s wedding is coming up. A nice dark black suit, and some sexy kickers…But I let them go. I’m sure that the next young man or (large footed woman) will enjoy those shoes. Hell, they might even love them. I did, before my daughter and son ruined my new shoes. smile emoticon
Just to be an insufferable arsehole, I'll now point out that something cannot be very true; it's either true or it's not.
I'll point out that all arseholes are insufferable, so your adjective is redundant. Good shoe story, though.
Cute, funny, sensitive, well-written, even thoughtful--and all this time since your tirade about Hilary's e-mails I've had you all wrong, thinking you were a Republican.
I'm a straight-up libertarian. I can't stand Hillary or Bush or Obama -- they're all for big government telling you what to do...Or at least suggesting GOV has the answers... Tank you for liking my story.
And someone taught you to speak Minnesotan--or have you picked up the dialect from listening to that flaming liberal (and talented humorist like one of our liberal senators) Garrison Keillor on Prairie Home Companion on NPR--or from watching replays of "Fargo" on late night TV? We're not so different in where we find humor are we?
