I really dislike shopping for shoes, which is one of the reasons I wear whatever is in the closet until they begin to embarrass my wife. I, along with many others, have discovered that a nearly painless way of acquiring new shoes is to make eye contact with a salesperson in a Nordstrom shoe department, after which very little time and no real effort are needed beyond selecting which credit card to present at the register. Having got the stink eye several days ago when my wife had a good look at them, it was off to Nordstrom to use the man‐of‐few‐words technique to replace the sneakers I purchased there when last I was in need.
My approach to describing what I want is to point at the shoes on my feet and say, Whatever you have that looks like those.
I have enjoyed a perfectly satisfactory history of
sneaker wear by placing myself in the capable hands of someone who knows what is in the stockroom. On this occasion, the salesperson, having glanced for only a moment after I had pointed downward
and seemingly without needing to pause first to inhale, began describing precisely what it was I had on my feet, perhaps mentioning arcane data about the material used in the soles in which I felt little interest
but was dazzled nonetheless to be told, and inspiring me to make a mental note to include the Nordstrom family in my prayers, before regretting to inform me that there was nothing approximating them on hand.
Everyone these days, it seems, wants orange or purple sneakers with green laces, and if I wished, I would be welcome to have a pair of those, but sneakers I did not plan to wear while slamming
basketballs into hoops, or dashing up and down grandstand stairs at empty stadia, or climbing sheer rock faces with one hand, in timeless white, were not in supply.
Dazed, confused, and feeling not a little thwarted, I stumbled from Nordstrom. I hate feeling thwarted.
Have you ever been in line at a salad bar behind someone who feels the need to study each offering beneath the sneeze guard as if choosing an engagement ring?
Dude, it’s a goddamn leaf. Are you stalking it? Stick a handful on your plate and move along. Do I want this radish or that radish?
they appear to wonder.
One, or two of them? Perhaps some garbonzos?
Lingering over the sliced mushrooms and looking forward to assaying the many dressings, they are a study in the precious snowflake archetype
and thwart the objective of those behind them to get on with it. Thinking about the marginal hunter‐gatherer energy required to sneak up on a pair of tennis shoes cleared my head, and I headed for the car.
I stopped at a sporting goods store a short distance away, intent on demonstrating proper, unaided technique for choosing the footware equivalent of salad greens: white tennis shoes. I studied those on my feet, discovered they featured a number on the tongue, stood, and saw the exact same number on a pair of shoes on the display counter. Four minutes later, I was out the door and on my way home, new shoes in the trunk.
Yes, the number on the tongue of the old pair had been there throughout my years of ownership, and yes, I tie my own shoes, so it is fair to wonder how the information had escaped my notice. Now that I realize these shoes can be identified by a model number, I have added them to my Amazon wish list. Once purchased, that purchase will be attached to a Buy Again button, the use of which is a well‐practiced skill of mine. One less trip to the mall will leave more time to spend satisfied with myself.
I wonder how long until they will be available only in yellow with blue laces.