My saintly friend took my big boys for the weekend, and my mother watched the twins, so my husband and I were left to our own devices for the first time since...holy, maybe our honeymoon? Anyway, a long time. Being wild and crazy, we decided to use the freedom to shop for clothes for my husband to wear to work. His current wardrobe consists of tatters formerly known as clothes. And by formerly, I mean in the 80s, so even if they weren't threadbare and full of holes, they wouldn't exactly be fashionable. So it may not seem like the most romantic of outings, but it was necessary, and it turned out to be way more fun than you might expect.
The really amusing part of our shopping trip came after all the clothes were selected and purchased, and we decided to stop by the shoe department to see if we could also replace the block-shaped scuffed shoes my husband currently wears to work every day. We picked out a few styles for him to try on (our selection process consisted of me rejecting all of his efforts to classify Sketchers and work boots as "business appropriate" footwear, and him rejecting all shoes with any style or flair at all). While we waited for the poor sales clerk to get his shoes, which we requested in a size 10, my husband stepped into one of those metal foot-measuring things just to check his size. Imagine our surprise when the scale clearly said that he wears a size 7. Possibly a 7.5.
My husband's reaction was denial. He literally refused to even consider for a moment that our dispassionate metal witness might be correct, and that he was the one who had not, for reasons passing understanding, known his own shoe size for 20 years. So I enlisted the assistance of the now-amused sales clerk, who confirmed with her professional expertise that my husband does, in fact, have the dainty pretty feet of a 10 year old girl. I mean, is a size 7.
Surely, faced with the mounting evidence, a reasonable person would cave and work toward acceptance of the new, small-footed world order. My husband is not a reasonable person. I next requested that the sales clerk bring out a pair of shoes, any shoes, in a 7.5. She did, and my husband executed a perfect OJ Simpson impression, wedging his foot into the shoe with a great display of grunting and straining and pained expression. But, and here is the key point, his foot did fit inside the shoe. By this point, I was gasping for breath, the neighboring crowd was starting to chuckle, and the sales clerk was beginning to look like maybe selling shoes wasn't quite as suck-ass as she thought it would be. My husband, rather than admit defeat, decided that he simply couldn't purchase shoes without his special work socks present (and they must be special indeed, to enlarge his feet by 2.5 sizes), and decided to come back later and try again.
All the way home in the car, I tried to convince my husband that the fact that he OWNS size 9, 9.5, and 10 shoes does not mean that his FEET are size 9, 9.5, or 10. He expressed his opinion that feet need a "buffer" between toes and end of shoe. He insisted that the wear pattern on his work shoes, which I now realize indicates that his toes reach the MIDDLE OF HIS SHOES, is completely normal. Doesn't everyone have quarter-sized wear spots right in the middle of their shoes? From their big toes?
The situation deteriorated further when we got home, and my husband held up his foot and said, "look at this, it's about 14 inches, right?" OMG, I'm snorting just typing it. 14 inches! He is in for such a world of disillusionment when this thought process reaches its logical next step. He couldn't find a tape measure, so he got out a piece of paper and held his foot against it, determining that his foot was about an inch shorter than the paper and therefore 10" long. "So," he said, "I wear a size 10! See?!" I explained, through tears of mirth, that shoe sizes do not correlate to foot length, and as proof of my premise, I reminded him that men and women's sizes are different. His response? "I thought...the centimeter."
Seriously, there's no way this is as funny written out as it has been in person, but this is one hell of a funny day. Couples without children must just have fun all the livelong day.
The really amusing part of our shopping trip came after all the clothes were selected and purchased, and we decided to stop by the shoe department to see if we could also replace the block-shaped scuffed shoes my husband currently wears to work every day. We picked out a few styles for him to try on (our selection process consisted of me rejecting all of his efforts to classify Sketchers and work boots as "business appropriate" footwear, and him rejecting all shoes with any style or flair at all). While we waited for the poor sales clerk to get his shoes, which we requested in a size 10, my husband stepped into one of those metal foot-measuring things just to check his size. Imagine our surprise when the scale clearly said that he wears a size 7. Possibly a 7.5.
My husband's reaction was denial. He literally refused to even consider for a moment that our dispassionate metal witness might be correct, and that he was the one who had not, for reasons passing understanding, known his own shoe size for 20 years. So I enlisted the assistance of the now-amused sales clerk, who confirmed with her professional expertise that my husband does, in fact, have the dainty pretty feet of a 10 year old girl. I mean, is a size 7.
Surely, faced with the mounting evidence, a reasonable person would cave and work toward acceptance of the new, small-footed world order. My husband is not a reasonable person. I next requested that the sales clerk bring out a pair of shoes, any shoes, in a 7.5. She did, and my husband executed a perfect OJ Simpson impression, wedging his foot into the shoe with a great display of grunting and straining and pained expression. But, and here is the key point, his foot did fit inside the shoe. By this point, I was gasping for breath, the neighboring crowd was starting to chuckle, and the sales clerk was beginning to look like maybe selling shoes wasn't quite as suck-ass as she thought it would be. My husband, rather than admit defeat, decided that he simply couldn't purchase shoes without his special work socks present (and they must be special indeed, to enlarge his feet by 2.5 sizes), and decided to come back later and try again.
All the way home in the car, I tried to convince my husband that the fact that he OWNS size 9, 9.5, and 10 shoes does not mean that his FEET are size 9, 9.5, or 10. He expressed his opinion that feet need a "buffer" between toes and end of shoe. He insisted that the wear pattern on his work shoes, which I now realize indicates that his toes reach the MIDDLE OF HIS SHOES, is completely normal. Doesn't everyone have quarter-sized wear spots right in the middle of their shoes? From their big toes?
The situation deteriorated further when we got home, and my husband held up his foot and said, "look at this, it's about 14 inches, right?" OMG, I'm snorting just typing it. 14 inches! He is in for such a world of disillusionment when this thought process reaches its logical next step. He couldn't find a tape measure, so he got out a piece of paper and held his foot against it, determining that his foot was about an inch shorter than the paper and therefore 10" long. "So," he said, "I wear a size 10! See?!" I explained, through tears of mirth, that shoe sizes do not correlate to foot length, and as proof of my premise, I reminded him that men and women's sizes are different. His response? "I thought...the centimeter."
Seriously, there's no way this is as funny written out as it has been in person, but this is one hell of a funny day. Couples without children must just have fun all the livelong day.
3 comments:
Oh holy hell, that IS funny! So funny, in fact, that it made me get up off my fat butt to measure my own feet. Just tell K that his paws are only about 1/2" smaller than his favorite astrophysicist's. And I wear a size 9. Women's. : - )
The poor small footed man!
small feet, small hands equal...?
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