Weekly Posting of the Conservative Cow Doctor


I Like Your Shoes

If I were a politician I would never address a subject as sensitive as a lady’s shoes. I am not, so I can. Members of the fairer sex will find this column ridiculously obvious, so they should it. Members of the not-so-fair sex will find my points as astonishing as I did when I discovered them; you best commit them to memory. If all the lady readers have turned the page, I will begin.

Over our Easter travels to visit family in Florida, the trophy wife and I spent our three hour layover in Denver enjoying a leisurely breakfast in a small airport café. The hostess spoke with a heavy accent suggesting English was not her native tongue. Even though I am adept at discerning breeds of cattle, dogs, cats and horses, guessing the ancestry of humans stumps me, so I did not even try. After a couple communication stumbles, we successfully ordered coffee and Denver omelets; something which seemed appropriate since we were in the Mile High City. With time to spare, we slowly ate our breakfasts and downed several cups of coffee. The third time the hostess visited our table with the coffee carafe she motioned under the table at my wife’s feet and in perfect English stated, “I like your shoes.” The trophy wife beamed. When I could take the suspense no longer, I leaned to my left and lifted the table cloth so I could study the trophy shoes so remarkable they transcended our international language barrier. They appeared orange. Without a word, I straightened up, curiously cocked my head and stared at my trophy wife as if begging her to explain what just happened. She just sat and smiled. I paid our bill and we walked to our gate.

Two weeks after Easter, we were out for a run in the pre-dawn darkness. I was separated from Druann and the rest of our running group when I spotted a couple strange runners headed my way. These two young ladies were dressed in dangerously dark clothing with no reflective striping or headlamps. With the pair 200 yards away, I fixated my gaze on the loud, neon pink running shoes of the girl closest to the centerline. As we passed in the twilight I said, “I like your shoes,” referring to their hi-visibility in low light conditions. Both girls grinned and just then the sun broke over the east horizon and it was if I could hear a heavenly chorus belting out Hallelujah. It was the mother of all epiphanies: Women hold a stranger’s opinion of their shoes in the highest possible esteem.

This must be a recessive, double X, sex-linked characteristic because we XY-ers attach no emotion to our footwear. Although there is a new normal in the NFL, it hasn’t quite broken into the redneck world of corrals, calving barns and feedlots. I can only imagine the embarrassing silence hanging chute side the first time John takes his hands off the head catch and turns to Steve and says, “I sure like your Muck boots.” If it were possible for the earth to stop spinning and fall off its axis that should do it and this brings me to my point.

The next time your trophy wife tries on a dress and asks, “Does this color make me look fat?”

Your response should be, “I sure like your shoes.” She will instantly smile and all the unanswerable questions concerning fat colors will vaporize. (This little trick is a great answer to any question you wish to avoid, but to be a hero she must actually be wearing shoes.) No need to thank me. Offering these tidbits for better living is my civic duty as an elected official and my term does not expire until the end of 2014.

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