What this is, basically, is another perspective on Leslie's life, as seen through the eyes of her husband. Even though I've used the label "Volume 1," that doesn't necessarily imply that there will be a Volume 2; she doesn't even know that I'm doing this. Anyway, here goes...
Last weekend, Alison decided that we should all take a walk to her favorite place in the whole world -- the donut shop. She's developed quite a weakness for donuts, and seems to prefer glazed twists. Henry, on the other hand, is a sucker for donut holes. He hasn't yet vocalized this, but I supsect that he likes them because they're the perfect size for two purposes, either A, mercilessly squeezing them inside of his tiny, balled-up fist, or B, stuffing them whole (timid mothers, please look away) one after the other into his insatiable mouth. The added benefit is that both options A and B somehow leave his face with a glossy sheen of liquid sugar. But I digress...
And so back to our story. Alison wanted to walk to the donut shop. I should mention here that this is usually a breakfast trip, but Leslie and I typically steer clear of the donuts in favor of the fine fare offered at the nearby Fantastic Burger Cafe. It's been my experience that whenever an eatery uses an adjective like "fantastic" in its name, they're trying a bit too hard to convince people of something that isn't really true. Such is the case here. But I digress...
And so back to our story. Alison wanted to walk to the donut shop, so we got everyone dressed and ready, stuffed Allie and the Pig into the double stroller, and started on our way. The donut shop and cafe are just a touch over a mile away, and the best part of the walk -- aside from the exercise, of course -- is that Leslie and I get thirty minutes of fairly uninterrupted conversation time as the little ones sit entranced by the parade of passing houses, barking dogs, and falling leaves. It's priceless.
So on this particular morning, I was talking to Leslie about the Olympics and how the International Olympic Committee had done its best to ban blogging by the athletes from within the Olympic Village. I went on to explain that the IOC sells the rights to everything related to the Olympics, and that NBC had paid something like $700 million for the television rights. It's really quite amazing how I can still find myself falling into these monologues, usually about sports, that I know could never hold Leslie's interest. I don't do it on purpose, the words just seem to tumble out of my mouth and bounce around on the floor like so many marbles. (Perhaps you know a husband like this?) If I could, I'd sweep them all up and stuff them into my pockets, but I'm never sure which makes me look more foolish -- continuing the conversation to its yawn-inducing end, or stopping dead in the middle.
As I was debating whether or not to continue, Leslie saved me. She stopped dead in her tracks, grabbed my arm, and shouted out, "OH MY GOD!" Momentarily offended -- could my story have been THAT boring? -- I stopped to see what the problem was.
"I'm wearing two different shoes! Oh... my... God!" I looked down, and sure enough. Two different shoes. I love my wife, but these shoes weren't even close. See for yourself.
My first thought was that she was probably going to make us turn around rather than risk being seen in such a state. We were about three-quarters of the way into our trip, and I was starting to look forward to having a mediocre grilled-cheese sandwich. The idea of walking back home on an empty stomach (with two crying, donut-deprived babies) was not appealing.
So I stood in the street (our sidewalks aren't very stroller-friendly) next to my wife, the two of us staring helplessly at her shoes, one brown, one black. "Why didn't you tell me that I was wearing two different shoes?? These aren't even close!" I had probably missed her gaffe because I had been in charge of Henry's shoes. He has a pair of retro canvas Chuck Taylor All-Stars. At first, they look really cool, but they lose all appeal the first time you try to put them on. It's like trying to coax a snake into a tube of toothpaste.
To Leslie's credit, she pushed on. She did, however, insist that we enter the cafe through the back door, hoping we could just slide into a booth in the rear of the restaurant. Sadly, we had to walk past several tables before finding an empty one, and a few minutes later we actually saw a woman we knew. It took all of my willpower not to call her over, just to watch Leslie squirm a bit.
The rest of the meal was uneventful, and the walk home went well until Leslie started complaining about her spine. You see, not only were the shoes different colors, it seemed they were different heights as well. And remember, she had walked three-quarters of a mile before noticing. A silly girl, indeed, but I love her just the same.
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