Manolo says, it is Monday and you are frankly stressing out over the impending Thanksgiving-o-pocalypse which is now barreling toward you like the runaway trainload of the free-range heirloom turkeys.
Normally, Thanksgiving does not cause such excessive stress, but then, normally, you do the Thanksgiving at your home. Normally, you do not agree to get on the plane and travel to your in-laws on the other side of the country for the long weekend of family togetherness.
Of the course, you are not worried about the weekend, as it will undoubtedly be pleasant enough, filled with turkey, football, and the ordinary frictions of family visits.
No, what is worrying you is the strong potential for disaster as you pass through the security checkpoint at the airport, because your husband Gary, the normally level-headed person, has vowed that his junk shall go untouched.
“You’ve been listening to talk radio again, haven’t you?”
“You were listening to Pacifica Radio?”
“Fight the power, honey,” he says, as he gives you the clenched fist salute, whether ironically or not, you cannot tell.
And so now you are worried that your man will do something stupid at the TSA checkpoint, like making the offensive wisecracking about amateur proctology or not getting the romantic dinner before going to third base with the screener.
Worse, last night you woke up in the sweat picturing the airport crowds cheering as your husband is led away in handcuffs, wearing nothing but his underclothing, shouting loudly about the “intrusive fingers of the federal government”.
So this morning at breakfast, you confronted him over the cornflakes.
“Gary, promise me you won’t act up at the airport on Wednesday.”
“What do you mean by ‘act-up’?”
This evasiveness is not the good sign. What you need now are shoes…
Not even the knowledge that your husband might be intent on becoming the folk hero of resistance can reduce the sublime beauty of such shoes.