Dating is usually stressful, but the pandemic is making things easier for me. Suddenly everyone is acting weird and paranoid, so I’ve been able to blend in better with the other daters.
On a recent afternoon, I enjoyed a pleasant tete-a-tete with a charming and witty new man. We sat six feet away from each other under sun-dappled trees at a pretty cafe, laughing and acting like we were in a movie about people in Paris.
Everything went well until we decided to pick up some food at a restaurant and have a picnic six feet away from each other in a park near my house.
Because our plan involved a fair amount of walking, I said I wanted to stop by my home, change out of my thigh-high sexy babe boots, and put on comfortable sneakers.
The new man smiled with delight. “Sneakers? That’s a word I haven’t heard in a long time.”
Technically he didn’t say “sneakers is an old word,” but that’s what I heard, and I panicked. “Old” is a word which I can’t allow anywhere near me.
He settled back in his chair and furrowed his brow. “I thought they were called tennis shoes. Or gym shoes.”
“I don’t play tennis, and I don’t go to the gym right now because of the virus.” I stood up and gave him what I hoped was a sultry shrug. “I call my shoes ‘sneakers’ because I like the word ‘sneakers.’”
We said no more about my shoes and moved on to the next scene of the movie we were in about people in Paris.
The next day, alone in my lair, I pondered my real reasons for calling my shoes “sneakers.” I’d never said anything like that before, not even to myself. I wondered if I’d been subconsciously trying to appear mysterious yet familiar to the charming and witty new man. I toyed with the terrifying idea that I might actually be getting older and prone to geezerish remarks. It occurred to me the word “sneakers” might be just a simple brain fart, a common malfunction not worthy of so much scrutiny.
Exhausted by trying to unpack the puzzle of my sneaker-love, I wandered into my kitchen. I’d just purchased a watermelon and craved a bite of the sweet summer fruit. When I tried to cut the melon open, the enormous thing kept rolling around on the counter, threatening to jump. To make matters more challenging, the only large cutting tool I possess (besides a giant, scary wood saw) is a hand-me-down, very dull bread knife.
Just as I managed to chop through the dappled green crust, a big chunk of pulp shot into the air, sailed onto the floor, and landed with a splashy plop. Everything within a three-foot radius, including me, got covered with sticky pink goo. When I tried to walk away and find some paper towels, my sneakers stuck to the floor and made suction noises each time I moved.
Because I try to keep my lair somewhat resembling civilization, I mixed up a bucket of soapy water and spent the next 15 minutes crawling around on the kitchen floor, sopping up watermelon juice and scrubbing like a sailor.
Washing the kitchen floor must be a Zen thing because it uncorked my brain, and I remembered why I call my tennis shoes/athletic shoes/gym shoes/running shoes “sneakers.” I used to call them "remedial shoes" because they’re so ugly, but that sounded vaguely politically incorrect. Plus, when I looked up “remedial shoes” online, it turned out remedial shoes are for horses, not people. So I changed their name to “sneakers” because it’s random and silly, especially in light of the fact “sneakers" are a real kind of human shoe which my ugly, comfortable shoes are not.
In other words, I call my shoes “sneakers” because I like the word “sneakers.”
When I arrived at the next scene of the movie about people in Paris, the charming and witty new man had disappeared, but thanks to the magic of Zen floor washing, I’ve solved the mystery of why I call my shoes “sneakers.” I’ve also solved the dilemma of my shoes sticking to the floor, which might speed up the storyline of the movie I’m in about people in Paris.