Call me Slipper-Man

Opinion

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 22/04/2016 (3423 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

It was one of those life-altering moments that comes straight out of left field.

It began just over a month ago when a mysterious package wrapped in brown paper arrived in the mail.

The label said it had been sent by my mom from the West Coast and, deep inside, I suspected it was either a very late birthday present or an extremely early Christmas gift.

With a growing sense of dread, I ripped off the wrapping paper, tore the lid off the box, reached inside and pulled out… a pair of slippers.

“That’s just what you need — a lovely pair of slippers,” my wife, She Who Must Not Be Named, gushed innocently.

As slippers go, they were state-of-the-art, handcrafted from tan suede in a moccasin style, with an extra-thick lining fashioned from decadently fuzzy sheepskin.

“Ugh!” is what I grunted, scrunching my face into a frown as I allowed the obviously expensive footwear to dangle from an outstretched hand.

I don’t want you to think I am an ungrateful wretch of a son, but the truth is I have never in my life been a slipper-wearing kind of guy.

Seriously, the only time in my life I have worn slippers was about a decade ago, when I was forced to check into a hospital for surgery on an arm I’d shattered chasing my dogs, and the nurses ordered me to wear a surgical gown that would barely fit the mayor of Munchkin Land, along with a pair of disposable slippers that — this is completely true — had little happy faces sewn on just above the toes.

I don’t know when or why my unreasonable hatred of slippers began, but I have always refused to wear them, even in the depths of a bitter Winnipeg winter.

In my unfashionable mind, there is nothing like a pair of comfy slippers to transform a hip, happening, stylish, cool, modern guy who is irresistible to the opposite sex into Capt. Dweeb from the Planet Dorktron 9 in the Galaxy of the Super Weenies.

It appeared my mother was sending me a gift symbolic of the fact I, Old Man Speirs, would spend my sunset years parked on the porch in a rocking chair, with slippers on my feet and a shotgun in my lap, waiting for stray teenagers to walk on the lawn so I could snarl: “Hey, you kids, git off ma prawperty!”

Look, I realize I have just offended legions of loyal slipper-wearing readers, and I sincerely apologize for that, but bear with me for a moment.

Scratch your minds and ponder the role of slippers in popular culture. Question: Who wears slippers? Answer: Non-sexy TV dads wear slippers. Yes, we’re talking about TV patriarchs such as Beaver Cleaver’s dad, and Cliff Huxtable on The Cosby Show. So, yes, Bill Cosby wore slippers, and we all know how that turned out.

I am also a major fan of all the James Bond movies and, as far as I can tell, there is not a single scene in any of them where the super-spy with a licence to kill wandered around like a doofus in a pair of unstylish, comfy slippers.

Miss Moneypenny: “Oh, James, you look so sexy. Whatever are you wearing?”

Bond: “Thank you, Moneypenny. These are my new slippers. My mom gave them to me.”

Miss Moneypenny: “Slippers! Ohmygawd, James, take me now!!!”

On the other hand, my wife thought they looked just swell. “You can wear them instead of your ratty old flip-flops when you go outside to barbecue,” she chirped in a bubbly voice that suggested I really should be more grateful.

So I scooped up the offending footwear, wandered down the hall, then dropped them in front of the closet at the back door.

Every day for the next month or so, I would wander by these unappreciated slippers and sneer down at them to ensure they understood they would never enjoy the honour of being slipped onto my unattractive, callous-laden feet.

Then, one cold recent evening, I was marching out back to grill some burgers, and I realized it was far too chilly to wear my flip-flops. No one was watching, so, with ninja-like quickness, I snatched up the sheepskin slippers and popped them on my feet.

It is not easy, using mere words, to describe what this experience was like, but I will give it my best shot: these (bad word) things were so fuzzy and so soft it was like… hold on while I think of the appropriate comparison… wearing clouds on my feet. Yes, clouds!

As I barbecued the burgers, my body shivered in the evening chill, but my feet, encased in sheer sheepskin bliss, were toasty warm. Sure, I looked like a major dork, but I didn’t care, because it felt like I was gliding around our soggy backyard on heavenly cushions of air.

So I don’t know what the future holds for me. Odds are I’ll end up as that cranky old shotgun-toting guy perched in a rocker on the front porch.

And I’m fine with that, provided I can jump into the role feet first.

doug.speirs@freepress.mb.ca