I was looking for some brown, wedge-heeled boots (which she wants and which would probably be a good deal in the opposite of their season) and some just-so sandals like my wife would wear, when, in my peripheral vision, I saw Them. They were wedged into some faux snakeskin stilettos, culminating in peek-a-boo painted toenails. And They were fantastic. They were standing right next to me. I couldn't turn and look straight at them, or their 5'11"-ish owner would see me. So I moved away. Probably, having already succumbed, not to flee, but to get a less obvious view. They moved the other way, disappearing down another aisle, which was good. Phew.
Then They reappeared in some black stilettos. I felt the pull of my dormant Pleasantry Policy tugging away and I felt like I had to say at least something like, "Those are very flattering." Or something. Preferably something uncreepy.
I still hadn't looked at her, more than to know that she was tall and blondish. But now I did. Her behind and torso were average. And her face suggested that she'd been pretty--maybe cheerleader cute, not Vogue beautiful--in her day, which was long past. But They, her calves, were fantastic.
Then I remembered that I'd just seen two identical pairs of black Via Spiga stiletto ankle boots, marked down from $260 to $37.50. I'd wanted achingly to buy them for my wife, but she refuses to wear any heel that doesn't make a clunking noise. (In fact, I'd bought her --OK, me-- virtually the exact same Via Spiga in a knee-high version a few Christmases ago, and had to hide them in a Bosch bread machine box so that when she took off the wrapper she wouldn't immediately glower and throw the box onto the For-The-Fireplace pile. They gathered dust in her closet for about six months before I gave up hope and put them on ebay.) But since this woman apparently wore the same size as my wife, I saw my opportunity. I went and grabbed both pairs.
Me: (handing her one of the boxes) These are a great deal. I'm getting a pair for my wife and thought you might like the other one.
Her: (looking at me, puzzled, then at the boots, then at the price tag, then, smiling big, back at me) Wow! These are beautiful. Thank you!
Me: I know how hard it is to find great stuff in this size. Enjoy!
Her: I will! Thanks! (then turned to her friend to chatter about something as I walked away)
I resumed my search for sandals. She emerged from one of the aisles with the boots on, then disappeared. She returned again, this time in heels, a moment later, as my eyes fell on some Juicy Couture heels. I grabbed them.
Me: (gesturing toward the pair she had on) Those are flattering. Better than the rattlesnake ones.
Her: Yeah, I think I like them more. Me: (handing her the Juicies) Maybe these would work.
Her: Ooooh... these look fun. I just need to be able to dance in them.
Me: Well, they have a little thicker heel, that might help.
Her: Whenever my friend takes me to Vegas, we always go out dancing. But for some reason, my foot has grown a whole size since we went last year, so I need some new shoes. Can you believe it, a whole size? And I didn't even have a baby or anything!
Me: Your foot grew a whole size? What, are you 18 or something?
Her: (smiling) Oh, that's very sweet. I'm [one year older than my wife, which shocked me]!
Me: Well, enjoy the boots and have fun in Vegas. Her: Definitely!
My wife has the kids at her grandparents' place in the Midwest. They've been there for about a week and will be there for most of the rest of the month. I called her on the way home from work. We'd spoken earlier in the afternoon without connecting -- an empty, arid call. So this evening I felt a waxing chasm and needed to get grounded. Ring, ring.
Me: Hi. Here I am. Again.
Her: (distractedly) Hi. What's up?
Me: I just wanted to chat. (#4 cries in the background on her end of the line) It sounds like this might not be a great time.
Her: I'm trying to feed [#4] with one hand and hold the phone with the other. Always a fun challenge. Always juggling.
Me: Maybe we can talk later.
Her: (sarcastically and exhaustedly) Yeah, I'll call you when I have all kinds of free time and not four kids pulling me in four directions.
Me: Right, OK, bye. Her: Bye.
So, after making a couple of visits in our ward this evening, I wrote her an email that included the following:
I called you again on the way home tonight tonight because, between our tense/frustrated last few calls [for example, we had a big argument a couple of days ago about a house she wanted me to go see, which was listed for almost exactly $150,000,000 more than what we'd discussed as being our comfort zone] and the noteworthy calves on the otherwise-not-unusually-fit-or-attractive woman (she's just 1 year older than you and looks 10+ years older...long story) who was shopping for shoes (heels) next to me @ the Rack this afternoon, I was feeling a bit disconnected and just wanted to chat. Not necessarily about anything in particular. Although today was a bit of a frustrating day at work. No biggie. . . . I stopped by [our former bishop's house] tonight. I talked about [plans for an upcoming event]. I stopped by [a family who has experienced a cataclysmic tragedy recently]. I spoke with [the mother] for a little while and shared a few thoughts with her. I think she appreciated it. Then I left and on the way home felt like a scuzz for having "noticed" Rack woman's legs earlier today within the context of The Big Picture. So I thought I'd write you. Here I am. Writing. . . .
After hit send, I went to YouTube to turn on some music while I washed the dishes. I saw that a new song by Beyoncé, "Best thing I never had," was trending. I like some of her music--doesn't hurt of course that she's easy on the eyes--so I clicked on the icon, a picture of her in a wedding veil. What I got was Ms. Knowles (or is it Mrs.-Z?) in a white merry widow. I figured that scene would be brief (get it, brief?) so I kept watching. Then I realized it wouldn't be brief, and really kept watching. Watching that healthy body and radiant face. Watching to see if the lace was transparent or if it had been opaqued for the shoot. (Opaqued.) Paying just enough attention to the music to know that it was uninteresting and enough to the lyrics to know that they were insipid.
After the jubilant denouement of that video, I needed to purge my ears and clicked over for a playlist of one of my favorite bands, Everything but the Girl. (Everybody knows their mega hit, Missing; nobody knows that they have an astonishingly rich discography dating back to the early '80s, and it's all great stuff.) The first track in the playlist, Single, had the static visual shown here -- surprisingly inconsistent with EBTG's benignly androgynous, almost asexual persona. But definitely leggy, blindsiding me like a drop from a Predator drone. I managed to tear myself away from a thorough study of the image (Is she in a South Beach-style home, or a private nook at an upscale retro restaurant? Is that a bathrobe next to her or a tidy-up towel? Is this before or after?) and went to wash wash the dishes.
When the dishes were done, I came back and found a reply from my wife, which opened as follows:
Hi Honey, I'm not wrinkled that you notice other women's legs. You are still a great man to me, and I love you for many things.
Argh. Surely it would have been better for her if I'd been the best thing she never had.
BTW, I bought the boots. A man's gotta dream.
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