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.
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.