If I were a politician I would
never address a subject as sensitive as a lady’s
shoes. I am not, so I can. Members of the fairer sex
will find this column ridiculously obvious, so they
should it. Members of the not-so-fair sex will find
my points as astonishing as I did when I discovered
them; you best commit them to memory. If all the
lady readers have turned the page, I will begin.
Over our Easter travels to visit family in Florida,
the trophy wife and I spent our three hour layover
in Denver enjoying a leisurely breakfast in a small
airport café. The hostess spoke with a heavy accent
suggesting English was not her native tongue. Even
though I am adept at discerning breeds of cattle,
dogs, cats and horses, guessing the ancestry of
humans stumps me, so I did not even try. After a
couple communication stumbles, we successfully
ordered coffee and Denver omelets; something which
seemed appropriate since we were in the Mile High
City. With time to spare, we slowly ate our
breakfasts and downed several cups of coffee. The
third time the hostess visited our table with the
coffee carafe she motioned under the table at my
wife’s feet and in perfect English stated, “I like
your shoes.” The trophy wife beamed. When I could
take the suspense no longer, I leaned to my left and
lifted the table cloth so I could study the trophy
shoes so remarkable they transcended our
international language barrier. They appeared
orange. Without a word, I straightened up, curiously
cocked my head and stared at my trophy wife as if
begging her to explain what just happened. She just
sat and smiled. I paid our bill and we walked to our
gate.
Two weeks after Easter, we were out for a run in the
pre-dawn darkness. I was separated from Druann and
the rest of our running group when I spotted a
couple strange runners headed my way. These two
young ladies were dressed in dangerously dark
clothing with no reflective striping or headlamps.
With the pair 200 yards away, I fixated my gaze on
the loud, neon pink running shoes of the girl
closest to the centerline. As we passed in the
twilight I said, “I like your shoes,” referring to
their hi-visibility in low light conditions. Both
girls grinned and just then the sun broke over the
east horizon and it was if I could hear a heavenly
chorus belting out Hallelujah. It was the mother of
all epiphanies: Women hold a stranger’s opinion of
their shoes in the highest possible esteem.
This must be a recessive, double X, sex-linked
characteristic because we XY-ers attach no emotion
to our footwear. Although there is a new normal in
the NFL, it hasn’t quite broken into the redneck
world of corrals, calving barns and feedlots. I can
only imagine the embarrassing silence hanging chute
side the first time John takes his hands off the
head catch and turns to Steve and says, “I sure like
your Muck boots.” If it were possible for the earth
to stop spinning and fall off its axis that should
do it and this brings me to my point.
The next time your trophy wife tries on a dress and
asks, “Does this color make me look fat?”
Your response should be, “I sure like your shoes.”
She will instantly smile and all the unanswerable
questions concerning fat colors will vaporize. (This
little trick is a great answer to any question you
wish to avoid, but to be a hero she must actually be
wearing shoes.) No need to thank me. Offering these
tidbits for better living is my civic duty as an
elected official and my term does not expire until
the end of 2014.
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