Shoes little more than footnote on list of Planet Man’s needs.

June 2, 2009

They say you can tell everything about a man by his shoes. If that is indeed the case, then my footwear says, “This guy needs to find a job. And win Lotto.”

While Viking Woman was once caught on film licking a Manolo Blahnik shoe while standing directly under the lights in the store’s display window, I tend not to be moved to orgasm by anything I place on my body.

I’m sure I represent all of Planet Man when I say that I treat shoes like every other clothing item I own  — kept to a bare minimum in number and replaced only when they wear out or disintegrate. Whichever comes first.

That would explain why I own the grand total of three pairs of footwear: hiking boots for wet/cold conditions; black dress shoes for job interviews/work/church/wedding/funerals; and athletic shoes for pretty much every other contingency.

As I’m constantly explaining to Viking Woman, humans possess but two feet. It is pretty much physically impossible to wear more than one pair of shoes at a time. She simply smiles and reminds me again about how she wants her ashes stored in a shoebox on a shelf in the Zappos store in Las Vegas. Next to the high heels. Size 9.

Unlike the female of the species, men do not feel the urge to change our shoes just because we’ve now blinked for the 170th time today. Or a butterfly happened to cross the yard. We do not need to buy new shoes simply because we wore the red ones to work three weeks ago and that means everyone has already seen them. The shame! The humiliation! The horror!

The utter crap!

On Planet Man, we believe in spending our money on the important things in life. And by important things, I mean chips, beer and widescreen TVs. The only reason we’d even bother to look at a woman’s shoes is if they were attached to her chest.

I’ve watched Viking Woman salivate in front of her computer as she stared, wide-eyed, at Admittedly, there are websites that have the same effect on me but I don’t get so excited I’m practically caressing the monitor. Well, hardly ever.

Zappos is a North American company, of course. I’m not sure how important shoes actually are here in New Zealand. When we lived in Gisborne, we’d pass a Maori primary school where most of the kids went barefoot. When the weather grew colder, they put on socks. Not shoes, mind you — just socks.

Actually, now that I think of it, I have owned more than three pairs of footwear at one time.

It was late fall when I was first hired as the sports editor for the Langley Times and, facing a long, chilly winter of reporting on outdoor soccer matches, I felt obliged to purchase a pair of snow boots that really should have come with their own sled dogs and directions to the Arctic Circle. By the time I managed to pull them off the first time, winter was over.

Viking Woman is now threatening to buy me Crocs. Over my dead body, I tell her.

Which means she will probably slip them on my cold, stiff corpse for the funeral.

And then spend my life insurance at the Manolo Blahnik store.

Apparently, there is some female rule that states, ‘You lick ’em, you buy ’em.’

Who knew?


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