Last weekend I purchased a new pair of waddling shoes. I felt the need to say that they were new just in case you thought I might be purchasing somebody’s used shoes. I believe the actual name of the product is running shoes but let’s face facts, not a whole lot of running is going to be done in this pair. The last time I ran was in 1989 and that’s because the ice cream truck was pulling away while I still had my mouth under the mister softie machine (no, that’s not a euphemism for gay sex).
I went to New Balance because they make very comfortable shoes and I love the enthusiasm of the salespeople. I think it takes a certain personality to work in retail. I did it for several years before landing my cushy job as painting instructor for the blind. Half the time I don’t even give them paint, just let them drag a dry brush across a piece of cardboard and tell them the colours are breathtaking the use of broad strokes is sublime. Never name a specific object because then you’re screwed.
“That’s a beautiful bowl of fruit.”
“It’s a picture of my wife.”
“Nice melons either way.”
The people at New Balance know their shoes and they want to put you in a pair that makes every other shoe you’ve owned feel like a combination of wet burlap and broken glass. First they make you walk so they can see if you’re flat footed, pigeon-toed, high arched, low arched, moderately depressed, drunk, completely without rhythm or living in a low-rise apartment building. They then lovingly select a few pairs like an oenophile (thanks “Word of the Day”) choosing a fine wine. They explain each one and what it offers:
“This one gives superior ankle support.”
“The BC998 makes you feel like anywhere you go, you’re walking in a bouncy castle.”
“This comes with a get out of jail free card and a coupon for a free appetizer at Red Lobster when you buy any entrée.”
The get out of jail free card could come in handy considering my plans for next weekend but I went with the ankle support. There have been occasions, while I’m walking, when my ankle turns inward causing me to go down like I’ve been shot and due to forward momentum I careen inevitably into something either solid or pointy. There is a dent the exact size of my head in a Metro paper box at Church and King that is not a coincidence.
