Manolo says, it is Monday and you are back at your desk doing that thing that you do to make that money that you need to keep you from living beneath that bridge alongside the road.

“When did it become so difficult,” you ask yourself, perhaps rhetorically, “to eke out the living?”

And then you feel sorry for yourself, because all of your first-world problems are weighing you down:

For the example, you need the new washer and dryer, because the old set is seven years old, and does not feature the latest next generation, electronic time-delay cycle technology, which means that you must physically be present to push the button that turns on the actual washing machine, instead of setting it so that the cycle starts later, thus ending when you are around to put the clothes into the dryer. Without this magical 21st Century feature, you have to be there in person when the cycle ends to immediately put the clothes into the dryer, lest they acquire that moldy smell from sitting in the washer, damp.

And frankly, this morning you find this intolerable, mainly because you are catching the strange whiff of moldiness from your hair, which you dried this morning with the towel that had sat in the washer tub much of yesterday afternoon while you were at brunch.

Meanwhile, somewhere in southeast Asia, the woman who is exactly your age, to the day, squats by the muddy brown river, beating her family’s clothing on the large rock.

And, ayyyy! Look at how toned her upper arms are!

You would have to spend many hours at the gym to get that sexy arm definition, being hectored by the blonde airhead who directs the SculptZumYogaBo class.

And this thought has made you even more dolorous.

Look! Beautiful shoes!

The leather Prada crisscross platform sandals from the Fall 2012 collection.

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?”

“Only Michael Savage,” he answers, the strange glint in his eye, “but I heard Amy Goodman say the same things this morning on Pacifica Radio.”

“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…

Look! Elegant suede platform sandals from Prada!

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.