Two years ago, I bought her a gorgeous pair of brown leather ankle boots. They’re insanely sexy, and the heels are a full inch higher than those of any other of her shoes.
The gift was one of those that was better in concept than in reality. In concept, the shoes look super hot on her, she looks super hot in them. In reality, though, the whole thing breaks down because she inevitably is hobbling within five minutes of putting them on.
The other night, she wore them. “You look hot! ” I said, when I saw her, in them, her perfect legs wrapped in fishnet stockings, rising into a tight denim miniskirt I had bought her, and a tight maroon cotton top I’d bought her. An all-N outfit.
“I wore them for you,” she said. “I read your post on high heels and thought I’d wear these.”
Here’s the thing. Or rather, three things. First, T doesn’t really read this blog religiously. As she says, “I have a life.” And she does. Second, T looks hot in whatever footwear she sports. (Except one pair.) Third, I’m capable of being an enormous doofus.
There were lots of right things I could have said. More appreciation. Gratitude. Praise.
But not me.
I argued that she had misread my post.
It is, truly, a wonder I’m still married.
(Thank God – and T – I am.)