Last week I was standing around Caribou waiting for my coffee and gossiping with Al, the cutest girl on earth™, when a woman approached me.
“Can I ask you a question?” she said.
I started to shake my head yes.
“It’s not how tall you are,” she started. “I have a daughter who is 6’3″.”
“I’m 6’5″,” I said.
“That’s what I thought,” she said. “So, if it’s not too personal, what size are your feet?”
“Oh,” I clutched my coffee and blinked at her.
This wasn’t a question I had ever been asked by a stranger in real life. Perverts on the Internet? Oh hell yeah, I get an e-mail about one a week asking me what size my feet are. But never from a living, breathing woman standing in front of me.
“I wear a men’s size twelve,” I said.
She shook her head a little sadly. “You’re really lucky.”
“I know, I got small feet.”
“You’re really lucky. My daughter’s a fifteen.”
“Oh.” I scrunched my face in sympathy.
“I was going to ask you where you got your shoes.” She pointed at the clunky, slide-on Doc Martens.
“Zappos,” I said. “I buy them all at Zappos dot com.”
“Thank you,” she said. “6’5″ and size twelve. My daughter’s gonna die.”
As we were walking back to the table to join the rest of the former-Hell, Inc employees, Al turned to me and said, “Before I married Ross [who is 6’9″] that conversation would have totally freaked me out.”
“It’s never ending,” I said.