This morning while getting the wonton soup I suddenly became convinced I would DIE without, I saw a woman tottering up Montgomery Street toward the BART station wearing a pair of boots that looked like something the Inquisition would have come up with to encourage particularly resilient suspects to confess to particularly odiferous charges.
She was dragging a suitcase that looked like it would be costing her an extra $300 in over-weight fees, an only-by-comparison smaller duffel bag over one shoulder, a probably-going-to-be-told-she-has-to-check-that carry-on bag on the other, and a purse that put my biggest knitting bag to shame.
I was not the only person watching her with an expression of great bemusement.
Because she was really hard to to miss. Seeing as how she was not exactly floating like a serene butterfly who wears that kind of footwear all the time.
No, it was more like…a drunken Teletubby heading homeward after an all-night howl.
In the rain.
So, you know, muddy hill.
Plus there may have been a strong headwind.
At first, I was thinking to myself that these were a damned odd choice for someone who was obviously traveling.
But then, as I winkled the bottom edge of my sweater from its favorite spot – you know, between my pants and my skin – I had to admit that a woman who wore wool next to the skin two days in a row probably had no right to scoff at somebody else choosing to wear shoes that were possibly designed by the Marquis de Sade himself.
Logic, after all, comes in all shapes and sizes…some of it will inevitably be shoe-shaped…
(But then again, this sweater isn’t itchy. No guard-hairs in this bad boy. This is, like, twelve micron wool, right here…)
(OK, maybe fourteen…or so…but well below twenty, anyway…)
(whaaaaaat? everybody talks about wool fiber in microns, pfffft, I thought you’d know that…!)