Look out, Imelda
What is it about shoe shopping that makes me go into a trance? No, really, when I’m in DSW Shoe Warehouse or Marshall’s shoe department, I look slowly and methodically at each pair, up and down the aisles. Most times I don’t buy any; sometimes I buy several. It depends on my mood. But every time – and I mean every time – I find myself nearly hypnotized; entranced, perhaps. But certainly engrossed. And it makes me realize that we are indeed products of our female, genetic structure. You, hunter. Me, gatherer. First, the disclaimer. I know not every woman loves shoe shopping or shopping at all (Tyra “doesn’t get” shoes, but loves bags; my late cousin Debbie couldn’t stand shopping). But we all know they are the exception. When I say “shopping” I mean it in the truest sense: not necessary buying, but looking, remembering, admiring, comparing. It’s what we do. We need to know where we can get “things” when we need them, whether it’s tahini (thanks, Lynn, for your suggestion) or a rubber seal for a frameless shower (that took some searching). It reminds me of a very funny yet insightful one-man Broadway show Gary and I went to for one of our anniversarys: Defending the Caveman. It attempted to explain the differences in how men and women think. And, yes, men do think, even when we think they don’t.
