While in Columbus over the weekend, B and I went on a search for his new pair of shoes.
This is because when I attempted to shove any of his already-owned shoes into our luggage on Friday
morning, he scrunched up his face with self-conscious my-accessories-are-definitely-not-as-cool-as-I-am loathing.
And then he boldly predicted, "I believe there will be a shoe purchase this weekend in Ohio."
Only it wasn't as easy as it sounded. Even at Easton Town Center, the heavenly Les Wexner monstrosity which of
course came to town after I moved away from Columbus, there was quite a shortage of shoe stores.
And inside the stores that did exist, quite a shortage of "the perfect shoes". Of course, it didn't help that
B and I could barely come to a consensus on what constituted shoe perfection. We could agree that they should be
not-so dressy, not-so athletic, and definitely not-so Diesel-freaky-trendy with those disturbing elf-like curling toes.
But beyond that, it got a bit murkier.
Or should I say, a bit brighter.
B liked white. BRIGHT white. Brand-new-athletic-shoe BRIGHT white that incites kids to run to the dusty
playground as soon as the shoes are secured on their feet. I preferred beige, khaki, or in some cases, tan-bordering-on-brown.
In Steve Madden, he bee-lined to the BRIGHT white shoe. I held and fondled its beigey counterpart.
This went on and on... in Banana Republic, in Foot Locker, in Buckle, in Aldo. And on and on and on because
we visited each store at least three times. We handled shoe after shoe after shoe. He would push his BRIGHT
white shoe under my nose, which would be scrunched up as a gesture of solidarity with the off-white variety.
We derailed for a moment into J. Crew where I found the shoe that reflected the perfect picture that had been
flashing through my mind all afternoon, but B dismissed laughingly, mentioning something about "girly Keds".
And then we made the rounds again. I was beginning to think that even Carrie and company would be forced to admire our endurance.
Finally on a third trip to Buckle, an incredibly friendly and trendy salesperson (F&TS) cornered us by the shoe rack. F&TS
immediately became our best friend and seemed determined to bring B every shoe in his size. Suddenly B had
rust-colored shoes in his hands and *GASP* on his feet. There were beige shoes, khaki shoes,
tan-bordering-on-brown shoes. Black shoes. Even OLIVE shoes. Everything made possible by, I soon realized--much
to the blow to my ego, a man's opinion. F&TS craftily buried the shoes that reminded B of an ex-girlfriend and
enthusiastically talked up a storm about everything from the songs on the radio to home-ownership and gardening to
Colonial Williamsburg, all while stoking B's ego and sense of coolness. F&TS had that freakishly overwhelming optimism
that made us both partially suspicious and partially ready to move into the house next door to him, his wife, and his
baby-to-be. "Good at his job" doesn't even come close.
We walked out about 40 minutes later with this fantastic pair of tan-bordering-on-brown Bedford Stu Kickin shoes...
...which I absolutely LOVE! Just like the man that sold WEARS them.
Happy, Happy New-Shoe Day, B! |
