I'm 78% Sure My Husband Bought Ladies’ Sandals
My dilemma is that I don’t want to discourage him from wearing them.
I don’t know how to share this disturbing news, as there’s no way to sugar-coat it, no way to minimize it, no way to rationalize it away. My best bet is to just write it, to tear off that bandage, and deal with the consequences.
Here goes:
I am 78% sure that my husband bought ladies’ sandals.
My dilemma is that I don’t want to discourage him from wearing said ladies’ sandals, but not for the reasons you might guess, unless one of the reasons you guessed is that it benefits me.
Some background: I have been with Fletch since 1994. In our entire lifespan together, I’ve gotten him to buy one pair of flipflops because he’s so fussy about his feet. Since I’ve known him, he’s given me the constant refrain that if you take care of your feet, your feet will take care of you. Apparently this is an Army thing. More than once, he’s said this while having to use pliers to pull a carpet tack out of the wizened leather that is the bottom of my bare foot. And you know what? When I am screaming is not the best time to remind me of his fastidious footcare regime.
(FYI, my twice-monthly professional manicures in sandal season, in his opinion, do not count as proper foot care, as I will often walk around sock-and-shoeless LIKE AN ANIMAL.)
Fletch would be more likely to stroll down the street butt-ass naked than he would be to go without shoes. His feet do not even touch the carpet in the morning; they go straight into hard-soled slippers. The rest of the day, they are clad in socks that cost upwards of $40 per pair and are made from llama’s tears, and protected by an ever-increasing number of hideous high-tech light hikers or expensive running shoes, supplemented with the kind of arch support they use to make the $400 pool floats in the Frontgate catalog. Then, only once he is back sitting on the bed does he remove his socks and shoes, sliding them immediately into his shearling slippers. There’s not a single moment of the day that his tootsies aren’t cosseted and swaddled in luxury. Have you read those stories about Ariana Grande being carried around, instead of just ambulating like a normal fucking person? That’s how Fletch is with his feet. They’re divas, full stop.
The result is, his feet are healthy and pink and soft, with high arches and fully reticulating toes, but this isn’t capturing the whole picture, as it’s like calling the ocean “wet.” Technically correct, there’s so much more to the story. When I say soft, I don’t mean “not rough.” I’m talking babies’ butts and chinchilla and spun silk, like a real tactile experience.
I’ve said before that there’s a market for his foot pictures. Although it’s not something I care to seek out, yet another weird mailing list I’ll find myself on.
I’m not sure I’ve yet given you the full experience of Fletch’s feet and what they’re capable of doing. Have you ever seen the 60 Minutes episode from the 1980s where a lady lost her arms and she was able to live a regular life by doing everything with her toes? I recall a scene where she brushed her little girl’s hair with her feet. Like the armless lady, Fletch could go to grocery store and pick out grapefruits, then open his little coin purse and remove a bill or card to pay the cashier—those are the kind of feet Fletch has. (And don’t even start me on his slim, shapely calves. Too bad he has no interest in drag, as he has legs for days.)
I can see a scenario where he could type a letter with those long, elegant digits, as they’re multi-jointed and can move in all directions, like tentacles. He says I’m jealous because I have flat, twin cinderblocks for feet, topped with stubby, square rock toes, roped with blue veins and welted with skin like Goodyear rubber. Mine are capable only of forward motion and kicking. I could never imagine the possibility of playing the piano with them, although I’d be in good shape to stop Fred Flintstone’s car.
As to how his wearing ladies’ sandals benefits me—at our club, we normally don’t have outdoor service attendants, as it’s less of a country club and more of a YMCA camp for people who drink. To get a cocktail, you have to go into the bar in the clubhouse, where shirts and shoes are required. Because Fletch doesn’t have sandals he’ll wear, he has to put on the deck shoes he wears to the pool, which include a full set of laces. The whole getting-around-to-going-inside-for-margaritas takes far too long. Sandals would expedite this process, so when he asked if he should look for some, I supported this endeavor. In fact, I rejoiced when he decided to shop for better poolside footwear, a process that took three full weeks of internet searching.
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