So one of the initial things that made my wife dig me–aside from my neck piercing–were my spiderman veins. I flash my veins with my cheekish grin and she lights up. Flashes me her porn star smile and its on. Just a tip, work the veins.
So while my wife and I were working/living in Buenos Aires for a while after college, she would frequently run for her dansko shoes anytime she saw a cockroach. She hated the cockroaches and would ferociously insist that I quickly come and kill them. I hesitated at first because I couldn’t imagine that she was serious. It was so cliché, it was surreal. Anyway, being the savy, self-preserving and relationship-preserving man that I am, I learned to quickly come and kill the cockroaches.
Even though the threat had passed, the shoes stayed on. And stayed on. It drove me crazy. When we were out walking in the city, she would trip and nearly roll her ankle on the uneven sidewalks. When we were home in the apartment, it felt like she and the shoes had become synonymous, like no woman had since the Wicked Witch of the East. It felt like her hostility toward the cockroaches was spreading to me. I implored her to shed the shoes and again join the ranks of the loving and the mortal. But with the threat of cockroaches, she stomped around in the safety and power that only the cockroach boots could provide. Damn the relationship.
Fast forward five years. My wife has been encouraging me to get a pair of comfortable shoes for work. I had been keeping an eye out for something, when I learned that the Acadians wore clogs they learned to make from the Dutch before arriving in Louisiana. Now, admiring Coonass culture as I do, I that would be the perfect solution for my new pair of shoes. I could be cool like the Cajuns!
I bought my pair of dansko clogs and my wife could have died. She was incredulous and brought up her scarred memory of the cockroaches and really hard time I gave her FIVE years ago. How could I have possibly remembered my opposition to clogs? Turns out, it wasn’t a problem for her!