We made the trek to the mall on Saturday as planned. The closest one is almost a forty minute drive. It's a nice size and there are many additional stores surrounding the mall itself. All the big names in retail are represented. I suppose the ride is worth it if you love to shop. I, on the other hand, would rather get poked in the eye. Shopping just isn't something I've ever really enjoyed. My goal is usually to get what I need and get the hell out of there ASAP. It works for me.
Anyway, my quest for new shoes landed us in many more stores than I care to visit in one day. I needed practical, business footwear which seemed to be non-existent in most stores. 'Tis the season for sandals, flip flops, and those stupid, plastic-looking things they pass off as shoes. None of which appeal to me...
I don't do feet. Seriously. Feet are yucky. Often sweaty. Sometimes obnoxiously fragrant. While they are designed perfectly to serve a necessary function, feet are simply not attractive. I rarely even look at my own. I don't appreciate being forced to see other people's either. I was definitely in the minority when my office changed its policy on open-toed shoes. Not having to see almost naked feet, nor hear the annoying clickety-clackety of flip flops in the office, does not break my heart one bit. At the beach? Appropriate. At work? Highly unprofessional. And gross.
The only exception, of course, is cute little baby feet. Those I can stomach, and even kiss when the mood strikes, but I have to admit I don't do that as often now that Punky is running around in sneakers. Even her adorable little piggies can make me gag when I peel her socks off and her feet are sweaty with globs of sock lint stuck between her toes. But, living up to my mama duties, I happily contain myself as I pick it all out and wipe her feet down with fresh-smelling baby wipes. As silly as it sounds, I'd rather a dirty diaper any day.
At any rate, our journey into multiple shoe departments this weekend made me think about what has to be the most awful job in the world: shoe salesman. I could never do it. I just... couldn't. To me, this job is worthy of it's own special on Mike Rowe's Dirty Jobs.
In one store, I couldn't help but notice a salesman fitting a woman for some dress shoes. She had three bandaids on the dirty foot she proudly held up for him so he could slip on a shoe. I think I threw up a little in my mouth. I don't understand how he didn't.
In another store, a saleswoman struggled to find a pair of sandals to fit an elderly woman comfortably. After about the sixth try, she was successful in finding something the woman could live with but it allowed me far too many opportunities to see her crooked toes and yellow nails as I shopped along the nearby wall. No one could pay me enough to touch her foot once, let alone six times. And why does she want sandals to show those puppies to the world?
One lucky salesman was spared in another store by a big guy who decided to try on new sneakers sans any outside help. I had the pleasure of being right next to him as he removed his old pair. What on earth do people do to achieve that level of offensive foot odor? I don't get it. Unless you run miles a day, in ninety degree weather, in wool socks, in ten-year-old sneakers, and you haven't heard of the new invention called soap, there is absolutely no excuse for a stench like that. Not to mention the vast array of foot cremes, powders, and shoe inserts now available in the modern world that specifically target the problem.
I can't imagine the all the horrors a shoe salesman faces on a daily basis. Aside from the odors, there are corns, blisters, fungi, missing nails and more lurking among the feet of the public. Blech. And, for those who actually waste precious life time doing it, painted toe nails do nothing to make feet more attractive; they simply draw even more attention to the ugliest part of the body.
God bless the shoe salesman. He has far greater strength than I.
No comments:
Post a Comment