There are very few occasions that require me to put on my fancy shoes.

Weddings. Funerals. Extraordinarily elaborate long cons involving myself, a pair of Aleutian tool-and-die makers, and a plucky marmoset named “June”.

And while my feet do get to look all stylin’ on the occasions that they are encased in my fancy shoes, I still loathe these occasions.

Because my fancy shoes hurt.

And that is not a good thing.

I would buy new fancy shoes that didn’t hurt, but I cannot justify spending money on shoes that I wear less than once a season.

Not less than once a month. Less than once a season.

And so, I endure.

But — toast on a pole! — they freaking hurt!

Today, I had to wear my fancy shoes. When My Lovely Wife came downstairs and looked at my feet, she shook her head and said, “I hate those shoes.”

I was shocked. While my fancy shoes do hurt me, they are not unattractive fancy shoes. Actually, the fact that they are rather attractive fancy shoes is the only thing that keeps me from throwing them out the airlock.

So I asked her, “Why do you hate them so much?”

She looked at me.

“Because I know they hurt you.”

So yeah — the shoes suck. But My Lovely Wife rocks.

…

Postscript the First: Yeah, yeah. I know. Women wear uncomfortable shoes all the time. Wah wah wah. Baby wants her bottle.

Postscript the Second: Yes, I am writing this as if I haven’t been a total ghost on this site lately. What? Did you want ANOTHER apology post from me? Yeah. I didn’t think so.

Postscript the Third: Reading back over what I had previously written, I have a sneaking suspicion that Postscript the First may have put me in a small saucer of hot water with a certain segment of this site’s readership. The ones with the X chromosones to spare.

Please allow me to mollify this torch-bearing mob with one simple statement:

Guys are pussies.

[Head emerges from the Ancient And Primeval Goo of Bus-Ee-Ness. Spits snorkel out of mouth.]

Forsooth… I live!

Please allow this defiant declaration to serve as a notice of my continued membership among the Quick and steadfast refusal to join the ranks of the Dead (and their horrible dental plan).

As well, please allow me to implore you — my long-suffering and mildly piratical readers — for delicious Cookies of Patience and scrumptious Brownies of Leeway as I continue to sail headlong into the rocks and shoals of Way-Too-Frigging-Much-On-My-Plate.

Alas. You should not be made to pay for trials and travails of my life.

But… if I can summon — from the very depths of my soul — the necessary fortitude to withstand the Many and Varied Spitballs of Fate, I can expect no less from you, my very-handily hypoallergenic readers.

And now! — back to the fray!

Tally-ho!

[Places snorkel back in mouth. Grasps harpoon in left hand and Russian nesting doll in right hand. Dives.]