Before I start. Didja know this is “International Women’s Day”? Is it too late to get my tree up?
Some devious little snot1 keeps moving my tenny-runners. At the end of a day, which lately is after I’ve covered the grill – post chops or chicken pieces or exotic steak episode – I shed those comfortable doobers. Always put them in the same spot. Just inside my office door. Always.
Okay, you got me. If I finish the day in the garage, especially if there’s a veneer of mud or grass, or post-wet grass tromp dampness on them, I’ll slip out of them at the top of the stairs just outside the door to the kitchen hallway. One day out of ten.
If you’re doing the math2 you are onto the idea that ninety percent of the time my Air Monarchs3 are in my office, convenient to the ritual of foot balm slather, general foot inspection, sock tug-of-war, and tenny-runner installation and tie-down. That’s where they are expected to be.
I am a creature of habit.4 When I park it5 in a chair in front of my desk, I’ve all component pieces for the shoe circus handy. This is necessary as early-on in this forced retirement, I’d start the routine and get all the way to “socks” before discovering my tenny-runners were not beside the doorway staring at me, eager to begin the day’s adventures. If I’m current on chores, the wood floors I must navigate conducting a search in these cases for milk-carton6 tenny-runners are slip-slide affairs for the wax on them. That’s nice if you’re a six-year-old, but dicey if you’re above the age of fifty7 or walk-chew-gum challenged.
Whether I’m on my game and make sure my Monarchs are handy as I begin the ceremony or find them missing when my socks are appropriately placed, if they are not where expected, the search begins. Because certainly someone has moved them. Some mischievous, misguided, evil imp. Motivation? Not sure. In the old days, it might have been to hear me go-off on a blue speech soliloquy.
Nowadays, I’m more reserved. Besides, a proper rage over the gremlin crew’s hiding my shoes requires a lot of wind. I’m saving my breath for up-an-downing ladders I’m not supposed to climb.
Searches are predictable. Completing a circuit through the house and the garage the first time, I crank up the volume and do the whole pattern again. Seems it’s always the third trip when the doobers show up. Not sure, but suspect, especially on a really vocal day, the mischievous gremlins continually move my shoes to prolong their enjoyment of this hilarity. On discovery most days, I’m certain I didn’t put my shoes behind the bar in the kitchen, under the bed, or on the boot dryer in the laundry room.
This morning, the world was off kilter. There was a search. As searches go, it was brief. Finally located, I do recall placing them where I did and why. On entry from the garage, I’d not carefully inspected my shoes before I walked up the hallway. Seeing behind me a yard-work Hansel and Gretel trail, lest I track-up the whole house, immediate removal was necessary. Left them right there, knowing I would remember where and remedy the situation later. I added to the “to-do” list, “vacuum the kitchen hallway.” Job security.
That was an exception to prove the rule.
Now, if you’ll pardon me, I need to head off to the big boy toy store8 for some parts. While I’m there, I will do some window-shopping. Lemme just get my keys out of the top-right desk drawer. That’s where I always put them.
What! Who in Sam Hill took my keys?
1 Snot. Yeah, you know what I mean. Working to stay G-16 here.
2 Statistics is math, right?
3 I receive no monetary incentive here. It’s just for the last, I dunno, twenty years or more, these are my non-boot preference. Wide, comfortable, easy-on, easy-off, and usually patiently waiting for the morning ritual as expected. Did I mention, inexpensive? Not cheap. Inexpensive. There is a difference. Oh. And dur-a-bull. In twenty years, only three pairs, and as I am no longer dragging the Florsheim Wingtips out of the closet for the daily slog and usually only donning my one-ton work boots on weekends, these tenny-runners get a lot of wear.
4 Surprisingly, most of those habits are good habits or at least innocuous.
5 “It” is my sit-down padding.
6 Stateside, some clown figured the way to publicize “missing” children was to put their pictures on the side of milk cartons. Flawed idea at best. Few buy milk in the half-gallon plasticized cardboard cartons anymore, preferring the big gallon jugs. Second, assuming this is 2021, the picture of the missing kid was taken in 1999 when the kid was four. I understand and appreciate the need to return missing kids to their homes, but Timmy now at the age of twenty-six, it will take real detective work to see the guy behind the meat department counter is Timmy, missing since 2000. My guess is Timmy doesn’t want to go home anyway. Then, there’s the issue of his wife and two kids. Don’t misunderstand me here. Missing and (usually) estranged parent-abducted children is a serious problem. Just reckon if corporate America wants to spend their money on a solution, they should instead hire a cadre of abductor-trackers to professionally work on it. Let’s hope anyone hired has a better jump on each case than twenty-years after the fact.
7 Which I am. Or I suppose if you’re emulating that “Risky Business” slide, it would be swell. Just hope your insurance is paid-up and you have time to sit for several weeks while broken old bones mend.
8 Hardware store.