Twinfamy

It was date night in the land of Twinfamy, and with the Twins in the more-than-capable hands of my parents, my wife and I were ecstatic. With a whole night completely devoid of anything having to do with tiny people spread out before us, we were out on the town doing the wildest, craziest, most psychotic thing imaginable–picking up a few things at Babies “R” Us while we waited for our restaurant to open at 5 pm.

My wife always does this. We finally have a moment to ourselves to do something awesome like pound tequila shots just before bungee jumping off the Washington Monument and making love midair, but just as I’m getting on the phone to book the private jet, she’ll say something like, “You know, we really need to go get more paper towels at Target.”

And the worst part is, she’s freaking right. We do need more stupid paper towels.

Sigh.

Anyway…

As we exited Babies “R” Us with our deeply exciting date night purchases (toddler socks and Balmex), my wife suddenly turned to me and asked, “So, did you notice my new shoes today?”

I instinctively looked down at her feet for the first time that day, because, well, of course I hadn’t noticed her new shoes. I’m a guy, and I barely care about my own shoes. I’m especially not sure how–as someone with literally four pairs in my rotation–I’m expected to keep track of all 47 of hers and ascertain whether the currently worn pair is a new addition. Perhaps I should maintain a Wife Shoe Wiki.

And as I mused about my apparently lackluster shoe-tracking skills, I realized I hadn’t responded.

“Nice,” I enthused, pointing at her feet. “I like the black straps.” Good one, John.

“You didn’t even notice my new shoes?” she prodded.

“Why would I look at your shoes?” I replied. “There’s plenty of better stuff to look at. Your face for example. Or your boobs. Or your butt.” See how deeply romantic I am on a date? I can bust out Shakespearean-sonnet-caliber lines like these on the spot. But sorry ladies, I’m spoken for.

However, my romantic gesture was lost on my wife, who was still stuck on the shoes.

“I can’t believe you didn’t notice my new shoes.”

I sighed. And then spoke for every man who has ever had to discuss shoes with a woman:

“Babe, I hate to break this to you, but men don’t give a sh!t about women’s shoes. Only other women care about women’s shoes.”

Seriously. I’ll notice new shirts. I do, in fact, have an opinion on which dress you should wear and have no problem helping you decide on one for 45 minutes. And you can bet I’m all ears (and eyes) when you solicit any feedback on your undergarments.

But shoes? I nothing them. They are arguably the least exciting component of women’s clothing.

Besides, noticing shoes implies I’m not looking my wife in the eye.

Sooooo…with that in mind, it stands to reason that I am an excellent husband for not noticing shoes and instead dreamily gazing at my wife’s beautiful face.

…or boobs…

…or butt…

…basically anything but the shoes.

And while my aversion in women’s footwear seemed sacrilegious to my wife, as I explained this all to her on the way to the restaurant, she seemed to almost, kind-of-sort-of maybe possibly understand where I was coming from, which I will hereby claim as a win for men who are forced into shoe conversations everywhere.

. . .

Moments later, as we made our way across the parking lot to our happy hour destination, I looked down once more at her feet. Catching her eye and rocking a grin, I said, “But since you brought it up, and now that I’m giving them my full attention, those. Shoes. Are fabulous.”

She laughed, lightly slapping my shoulder. “Dork.”

“How was that?”

“A little too much.”

“See? It’s just unnatural.”

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If not, you probably didn’t even notice my wife’s shoes. How dare you.