They say that in order to know someone, you must walk a mile in their shoes. Yeah well, I got a problem with that. First of all, what if their shoes don't fit? I'm a size 12 and it's hard enough finding shoes in the shops, so to expect the average person I might be intrigued by is wearing the same size shoe as me is foolish. After all, Dr. Scholl is a 9 and Dr. Marten is a 10 1/2 and they're the experts in comfortable feet.
Secondly, what if it's a woman and she is wearing heels? I couldn't be happier that they're the latest Manolo Blahniks and I agree that they are SO cute and go great with my new jeans but nonetheless, I'll still be stumbling around in agony while people passing by will be wondering if I lost a bet or am in training for the Rocky Horror Picture Show.
And lastly, we live in Canada. We swear by the Metric system around here. So, in reality I am walking a shorter distance than a mile, so does that mean I am not going to learn as much about the person that is currently filling out a statement to police regarding the weird man that came up and stole their shoes from them while reassuring them that it will all make sense in time?
Shoes that are killing my feet are enough to make me become rather grumpy but one thing that is GUARANTEED to make me snap is someone aiding me in whatever crisis I am dealing with by reciting an old saying that makes no sense whatsoever and expecting me to stop dead in my tracks in awe at their wisdom, having been humbled to a state of enlightenment. Case in point, I used to work in a restaurant and our G.M. was so fond of soothing frustrated servers that were dealing with customers from Hell by reminding them that "you get more bees with honey than you do vinegar."
It was a particulary bad night when it was my turn to receive the Scripture, having just proved to a table that my parents did in fact, know each other and were, in fact, married and no, I wasn't regularly dropped as a baby as well as defending myself from one disillusioned woman who clearly was the stunt double for the Michelin Man, that I wasn't looking at her breasts so much as I was looking FOR them as I cleared her table.
Slowly simmering to a molten stage, I grumbled and murmured to myself as I finished my cash out and was desperately downing the first of many glasses of red wine when I was approached by our fine dining Yoda, who took a moment to gently remind me of her favourite little gem of knowledge.
kaboom.
It wasn't so much a reaction as much as it was a complete and utterly devastating and thoroughly catastrophic thermonuclear meltdown of unheard of and never before seen porportions, whereby taking her cue and following her example, proceeded to enlighten her, along with the entire restaurant for that matter, by reminding her via screaming at the top of my lungs "You DON'T get bees with honey! The little bastards don't find honey, they MAKE the shit! You get more bees with POLLEN, you FUCKING DOLT! And who in their right mind, walks around with a fucking jug of vinegar calling out "heeeeeeere beeesies beeesies beesies, I've got some nice VINEGAR for you, fuzzy-wuzzy bumbley wumbley! Shut your pie-hole, put your helmet back on and go find yourself a nice colouring book, you mook!"
I was told the next afternoon by one of the bartenders as we sat on a patio sipping margaritas, that it was the dishwasher who found her three hours later in the basement linen closet, sitting on a milk crate hugging her knees and rocking back and forth, pale white and trembling, while chain-smoking her first pack of cigarettes since she had quit the habit 14 years prior to that evening.
And the moral of the story? Always buy shoes in the afternoon to ensure a proper fit. And you shouldn't smoke. Smoking is bad for your health.
