He comes home, kisses her on the cheek, then takes his middle daughter to Academy to try to find a new pair of soccer cleats.
And then he stays gone for three hours, not returning home until nearly 9:30 p.m., because finding a new pair of soccer cleats required trying on Every. Single. Pair. Ofcleatsintheentirestore. Every women's pair, every man's pair.
This one was too tight through here.
These hurt across here.
This one doesn't have a comfortable back.
This one rubs my heel.
This one hurts here, but feels better here than this one.
This one makes me feel like I'm rocking backwards.
This one is too hard.
Repeat.
Do you know how long three hours is when it's spent in a sporting goods store, when you're not looking at fun things like guns? It's a long time, that's how long.
But, it had to be done--she begins soccer again on the 13th, and she needs to get her cleats broken in a bit before she starts. And I apparently needed something to calm me down and make me so fatigued (aided by hungried, since I didn't have any kind of supper before we left) that my more base desires were safely and conveniently dissipated.
Of course, now I have had a night's sleep, and breakfast, and Miss Reba's picture is looking at me across the desk right now...
Posted by Terry Oglesby at November 3, 2006 09:40 AM