Middle Aged Woman + Toning Shoes = EPIC FAIL

I wasn’t going to say anything.  I was just gonna let it slide by. But after this morning’s incident, I’m fixin’ to tell ya’ll something here tew-DAY.

It’s about a gift my husband gave me for Christmas.  Butt shoes.  You heard me.  BUTT shoes (emphasis on the last ‘T’).  Those whack shoes that allegedly tone your legs and butt whilst walking.  I’m not a walker.  Never have been.  I’ll walk if I need to get somewhere, but not for the sheer leisure of it.  I can find better ways to raise my heart-rate.  Like that Wii sword fighting game.  I break a sweat on that thing.

The second I opened the shoe-box and saw the soles, I knew the Apocalypse was about to commence.  But I held it together because my in-laws were there and I didn’t want them to think I physically and emotionally abused their son. I waited until they laid down for a nap.  Then I hissed at him.

“Ewe got me BUTT shews!!”

“What?  Nah.  What are butt shoes?”

“Those shoes that you walk in that are supposed to make your legs and butt look all jazzercised up like on those commercials that make you sit with that stupid look on your face.”

“I did NOT get you butt shoes.”

“Yes.  Yes, you did.”

“Naw.  How do you know?”


He shrugged.  I hate the shrug.

“I just thought you’d look cute in ’em.  That’s all.”

And off he trotted to fetch some corn casserole.  I tried them on later that day, took three steps and fell onto the sofa, holding my butt like I’d just finished a triathlon in record time.

“Oh god…oh GAWD, MY BUTT!”

Naturally, the husband assumes I’m over-reacting.  Which I am NOT.  So this morning I decided to put them on because my leather boots don’t really jive with my army green hoody sweatshirt.  I was taking the kid to school, so who cares, right?  I should’ve cared.  I should have stopped and reminded myself of the pain and suffering that was endured a week or so ago.  Eh.  I was going for it.

So I walk my kid into her class, talk a few minutes with the teacher and walk back out the door.  I’m almost to my car.  I can almost taste it, I’m so very close.

Then I tipped over.  Like a cow.  You know, all sideways with my ankles crossed.  I didn’t even try to break my fall.  I just dropped.  There wasn’t anything I could’ve done anyway.  Kind of like when you lean your chair back too far and in that brief millisecond before your impending death, you question your own intellect and existence.

Getting up was like getting back on a jet-ski in choppy water with salmon all stuffed up in your swim-suit.  It was just ugly all around.  I know people saw me.  They pretended they didn’t, but they did.  I saw the looks of sympathy.  I saw them pull their children closer to their sides, as if to shield from the derelict Mommy who apparently drank rot-gut gin for breakfast before bringing her kid to school.

Like I said.  Epic Fail.

Now husband, you hear this.  I don’t want to hear one word come out of your mouth next year when you open up an envelope informing you that your wife has given you a ten-year Golden Premiere & Preferred Hair Club For Men membership.  Not a single word.



2 Responses

  1. What exactly does salmon in your swimsuit feel like?

  2. probably like two squirrels fighting over a ham in spandex leggings : P

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