Unhealthy Addictions

I realized yesterday, while trying to keep the Missus from killing me in a hormonal nesting instinct driven rage, that I have an unhealthy addiction. I also realize that a great many of my regular readers, okay both of them, hold me in high regard and view me as a "man among men". To ensure that image isn't destroyed I'm recommending that y'all skip reading this entry and giving you the chance to do so now, just click away.

And on with the show. As I was hanging my clothes up, yeah I know, that's woman's work, but the little lady is 'bout to bust any day now and I figured I could help out. The least I can do is hang my clothes up after she's washed and put them on the hangers, anyhow, I'm getting off topic. I'm hanging my clothes up I see that I have quite a few pairs of shoes in my closet, sixteen to be exact, and that's not counting the five pairs of boots and four sets flip-flops that get worn more often than the shoes do.

Some may consider this an affliction, that I need to turn in my man card and forever join the ranks of the metrosexuals, me not so much. Is it my fault that I've got good taste in shoes? That I can't help but pickup a pair, or two, here and there? It's an addiction folks, at times, I just can't help myself. There's this voice, a familiar soft sweet sirens voice, saying: phin get the shoes. phin, it's just one more pair, and they're perfect. See how they fit and they're the last ones in your size, it's supposed to happen this way. Of course the voice is that of the Missus, and she finishes the statement with and how about paying for these as you're checking out.

You can see I'm not taking the one hundred percent of the blame, really would you expect any less of me? The Missus has an even greater addiction to footwear, and clothing in general, than I do. When we moved from her apartment, where we'd lived the first couple of months we were married, I found out just what I'd gotten myself into. As my father, brother and I were moving the contents of her closet we found that she had enough shoes to go several months without wearing the same pair twice. Her shoes, loose pairs stuffed into two fifty gallon containers, the boxed pairs remained in the boxes, filled the back of a full sized Chevy truck. That's a whole damn lot of shoes and her collection has done nothing but grow the past several years.

She's like a lioness on the prowl when enters a store with shoes or any other accessories for that matter. I feel sorry, at times, for the poor bastards that step into her path. She'll think nothing of dropping her shoulder into or giving some eighty-year-old woman the heisman if she's standing between her and deal. A damned scary site it is to witness folks and I've mistakenly been in her path, once and only once, after all I ain't that stupid.

What is needed here is an intervention of sorts. Perhaps there's a local SAA, Shoe Addicts Anonymous, Chapter that we could sign up for. I realize it's probably way too late for her, and perhaps past my time me, my main concern is for the boy. He hasn't even escaped from the womb yet and there are several boxes of "pre-walkers" laying around.

I realize that admitting my addiction is the first step in doing battle with it, and battle with it I will, right after I pick these bad boys up, and replace my trusty Wolverine Wellington's that're worn out.