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Tuesday, Aug. 4, 2015
She's Right (Again)Posted Thursday, January 10, 2013, at 11:42 AM
I hate it when my wife is right!
It doesn't happen very often. Or, at least, I am not willing to admit it very often. But, being sick with a touch of the plague, noting the condition of my soul, a little confession may be in order.
Yvette says that I have "Freddy Flintstone" feet. Like the cartoon character, Fred Flintstone, my feet are rather wide and kind of squared off at the toes.
Since I hate shopping, it has been four years or so since I bought a new pair of sneakers. I typically wear a dress type shoe on workdays, unless I am barefoot under my desk, and my sneakers tend to be low mileage items.
My sneakers were scuffed and a bit dingy. My pinky toe had worked its way through the side, but that always happens to my sneakers. This particular pair still had plenty of good tread on them. Besides, no one looks to see if white sock clad pinky toes are sticking out of the side of a white pair of sneakers.
Against my will, she made me go into a large shoe store. As I sat and suffered, she selected box after box making me try each and every one of them on. Eventually I put on a pair size 10EEEE.
Harps began to play as my heart swelled with love. I never knew that a shoe could feel like that. Not only are these shoes the most comfortable I ever tried on, I suspect that I'd even be able to keep my pinky toes inside.
Yes, honey. You were right.
I also hate car shopping. It's an expensive long-term relationship that is more likely destined for disappointment than happily ever after.
I had a fabulous 1981 F250 pickup truck. The paint was faded and scuffed. There were a few rust spots. There were some dints and dings. The bench seat was covered with some kind of heavy multicolor macramé type cover. OK, it may have looked like it went through a minor war. But it had a 351 Windsor under the hood, which was carbureted. That means it had lots of power and I could actually work on the engine and know what I was doing (more or less).
She hated that truck. She was embarrassed for people to see it. Proving her nom de guerre, "She Who Must Be Obeyed," she made me buy a new used truck.
I hated the idea. A truck is a work thing. I haul firewood and gravel in it. I drive it to deer camp and may rub a tree getting in and out. I tracked all kinds of mud and debris in it. If it got damaged, no one could tell.
In full pout, I insisted that I didn't want to get a pretty truck.
I got a much newer red and silver F250 with four-wheel drive. It gets me into and out of anywhere I want to go. Once I have a winch on the front, it will get me into and out of places I have no business going. It will also allow me to pull my Kayak out of the river up a cliff. This truck wades though creeks and flood water without slowing and laughs at snow.
I love my new truck.
Yes honey. You were right.
Hopefully, that's enough confessing. Now I can go back to my sickbed and see if death chooses to arrive. If it doesn't, I guess I will have to get up and start looking for my male ego.
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