Shopping My Way To Sainthood: My Husband Needed New Sneakers

 

Wow. These photographed
way better than they actually look

Rick and I went on a trek to find him a new pair of tennis shoes. If you think this sounds--for me--like A) fun; B) no big deal; C) one of those simple Guy Errands; or D) absolutely no cause for Deep Breathing or Xanax, you'd be wronger than wrong. Whereas I approach shoe shopping with Joy and Glee and a sense of Wonder, hoping to be Surprised and Delighted, my husband has a different expectation. 

As in, he expects to walk into any shoe store and see THE EXACT SAME SHOE HE HAS BEEN WEARING FOR ONE HUNDRED YEARS sitting there, waiting for him. In his size. So that he can merely stride purposefully over to it, procure it, and take it to the cashier, where he will pay pretty much what he paid for it the first time he bought it. 

The. End.

I have no idea where this Fantasy originated. This has never, ever been his experience that I know of. As a matter of fact, I have accompanied him on his shoe shopping quests since before we were married, lo these past 45 years. His shoe shopping habits are so frustrating for the both of us that I often buy him shoes for gift-giving occasions.

Rick's requirements for The Perfect Tennis Shoe are:  absolutely all white; no ostentatious logo; no cloth; if there are ventilation holes, they must not be too numerous; the sole cannot be too clunky or chunky; no Nikes (they do not accommodate his very high arch); he prefers K-Swiss, but they no longer make the ones he used to wear; no high-tops.

The last time I bought him The Perfect K-Swiss Shoes, I bought two pairs. It was, I must say, A Genius Move. Except for the fact that he got far too attached, obviously, and now here we are. 

We went to four stores. I did not look at a single pair for myself (it must be said). I was Gentle, Kind, Patient, and Helpful. I did not roll my eyes one single time, even when he couldn't see me. I did not make any menacing movements behind his back or stick my tongue out at him when his head was turned. I didn't even show him really ugly shoes while pretending I thought they were nice. I was, in a word, Perfect.

Here are the shoes Rick finally chose. There was a lot of concern about that flashy air cushion thingy that's visible mid-sole. It is not optimal, and was--briefly--a sticking point. I sort of wandered away and let him decide while I did some deep breathing and thought about Theo being a cow for Halloween.

You can order this shoe here rather than wander all over two counties.

Only when I saw him give the cashier his credit card did I walk up to the counter and witness the end of our quest. "Yay!" I said, smiling and cheery. "That's accomplished! How do you feel about it?" 

"I'm just glad that's done and off my list," he said. 

The Big Question now is when will he wear them? There is always a Transitional Phase wherein the new shoes are slowly phased in, worn only for certain things, and the old shoes continue to be the main shoes. Eventually, the new shoes are pressed into more service, and the old shoes are relegated to lawn mowing, basement work, or get taken to the lake for jobs around there. This could take months (and all of my Patience). It reminds me of this story about his wallet.

My sons are more like me when it comes to shoes. Sam is a sneakerhead; his collection of sneakers is vast and eclectic. Jared loves shoes, the more unusual the better; the shoes he chose for his wedding were fantastic (so were Sam's). I want very much to believe that this sort of thing is not exclusive to my husband. Tell me in Comments if any of the Men In Your Life have a Shopping/Fashion Quirk. Failing that, you can pat me on the back for my Patience.

Six Questions

 

Thank goodness for Ally Bean, who gave me something to write about. I'm not feeling particularly Thinky or Inspired lately, so I'm borrowing from her latest post in which she asks and answers some questions about herself. She chose ten from an interview that she read, and I'll see how far I get, depending upon how much I want to chat about each one. I've altered the wording of some questions to better suit my purposes. Let's go.

1. What is a character trait you most dislike in yourself?

Oh, just one? I am not as patient as I'd like. Many people are very surprised by this, especially knowing that I was a teacher for thirty years. Perhaps that's where I used it all up. I find myself always feeling impatient, as if I'm in a terrific hurry:  in the car; in the checkout line; doing tasks at home. I have no idea why. I'm rarely on a schedule or deadline. Fortunately, I rarely show my impatience, so few people even know. 

2. What is a character trait you most dislike in others?

Again, just one? I'd have to say Willful Ignorance. I have the hardest time with stupid people, and with stupid women especially. I get so tired of hearing about Undecided Voters in this election or people who say they don't ever watch the news because it's too depressing or people who say they don't vote because it doesn't matter anyway. I just want to light those people on fire. 

3. Describe yourself in three words.

Intelligent. Kind. Concerned.

4. What do you most dislike about your appearance?

The dreaded menopot/meno belly, that little belly that won't go away now, no matter what. If I hadn't grown up with weight issues, it probably wouldn't be such A Thing with me. Thanks to so much fixation on and bullying about my weight when I was a kid, it's something that has become ingrained. Even when I was ill and size 0 clothes hung on me, I didn't have a realistic perception of my appearance and looked for bulges. To this day, when I see my reflection or a photograph of me, I don't recognize myself; I have no real idea of what I look like. Other than that, I'm pretty happy about how I look, despite the signs of normal aging. I decided long ago that I'd age as gracefully as I could and not be a big baby about it.

5. If you could bring something extinct back to life, what would you choose?

Civility and decorum in the public square. I can pinpoint exactly when rudeness and disrespect took over our Politics, and no, it wasn't when the adjudicated rapist descended his golden escalator. It was the moment when republican representative from South Carolina, Joe Wilson, shouted "You lie!" at then-President Obama during a speech to a joint session of Congress. At first, the retribution was swift and strong:  both parties condemned the action; his own wife called him an idiot; he apologized. Later, however, he had a change of heart and fundraised off the moment, appealing to the worst elements of the party, a faction which has only grown stronger since then.

I'd also like to include in this what I call the Great Casualization Of America. I'm so tired of seeing people wearing pajamas and slippers in public. I hate seeing men wearing baseball caps in restaurants and anyone wearing flipflops or crocs unless they're gardening or boating or on the beach. I can only imagine what is being flipped and flopped up into my food or produce. America:  where khakis are the new tuxedo. Sigh. (And longtime readers know how I feel about feet. Ugh.)

I don't want to end on a low note, and this is getting longish, so let's do one more and leave it at that.

6. Who is your celebrity crush?

Oh, we've talked about this before. Actually, I just talked about this yesterday on Football Sunday over at Sam's house, a quieter affair since Jared, Jordan, and Theo weren't there. (Theo is growing so fast that they had to take the day to go buy him warm clothes.) Not only was there an ad for the new Dylan movie starring Timothee Chalamet, but the Browns were playing, so I could gaze at Myles Garrett. 

Nance:  Oh, Timothee Chalamet. He's just beautiful. And he does all the singing in this film.

Rick and Sam:  (no response; Rick is dozing; Sam is feeding Zydrunas some tortilla chips)

Nance:  You know, I'm old enough to be his Nana. Myles Garrett's, too. (sighs) I don't care. They're just beautiful to look at.

Sam:  Wait. If you could be their Nana, that means I could be...their DAD?! How could that work?

Nance:  They're 27. Their moms would have had to have them at like 19 or something. It has nothing to do with you right now. 

Sam:  Oh. Okay.

(Poor Sam--the Browns continue to look just awful this season. He cannot handle anything else during games.)

Now it's your turn. I can't wait to hear from you in Comments.

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I'm Voting Hard For Harris-Walz And Langston Hughes

 

Last night Rick and I were trying to watch television, and we were unceasingly assailed by political ads for Ohio's US Senate race. Even on streaming channels (YouTubeTV and Hulu), we can't escape them. I detest the person running for the republicans. It's no secret that I love Sen. Sherrod Brown, who's just an all-around Good Guy. 

Anyway, every time the republican's ads come on, I mute them and get snarky and truthy with them. I used to have to prompt Rick to do the same, but now he does it on his own. That makes me feel good. Last night, we had this conversation after back-to-back-to-back political ads for the Senate race.

Scene opens in Rick and Nance's living room. Nance is on the couch, legs tucked under her. Rick is in the recliner, sitting like a normal human adult. She rolls her eyes and points the remote, exasperated.

Nance: (mutes TV) Rick! Tomorrow is already October 1st. Early in-person voting starts October 8th.

Rick: (turns to her, waiting) So you told me.

Nance:  I can't wait. I'm going to be there on the first day. I'm so ready. And I'm going to vote so hard. I mean it. I'm going to vote so hard. What about you?

Rick: (very serious) I don't think I can vote as hard as you, but I'm going to give it my best.

End Scene

(I may complain a lot about his snoring, his lack of fastidiousness, and his corny sense of humour, but the man gets me.)

In all seriousness, however, this election and what's at stake made me think of Langston Hughes. Cleveland loves to lay claim to this Harlem Renaissance poet, playwright, author, and activist. He wasn't born here, but after moving around awhile, he and his mother settled here, he went to school here, and he did publish his first poem while living in Cleveland. I love his work, and I taught a great deal of it. His poem "Let America Be America Again" makes me think about what is at stake in this critical election. Because it's really this simple, as I said over at maya's place:  In whose hands do you want to place the fate of those who need our help?

I hope you'll read this moving poem by Langston Hughes. And I hope you'll vote so hard to 

Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.

(America never was America to me.)

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed—
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.

(It never was America to me.)

O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.

(There’s never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this “homeland of the free.”)

Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery’s scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek—
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.

I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one’s own greed!

I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean—
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today—O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.

Yet I’m the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That’s made America the land it has become.
O, I’m the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home—
For I’m the one who left dark Ireland’s shore,
And Poland’s plain, and England’s grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa’s strand I came
To build a “homeland of the free.”

The free?

Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we’ve dreamed
And all the songs we’ve sung
And all the hopes we’ve held
And all the flags we’ve hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay—
Except the dream that’s almost dead today.

O, let America be America again—
The land that never has been yet—
And yet must be—the land where every man is free.
The land that’s mine—the poor man’s, Indian’s, Negro’s, ME—
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.

Sure, call me any ugly name you choose—
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people’s lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!

O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath—
America will be!

Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain—
All, all the stretch of these great green states—
And make America again!

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