Some of you may have noticed the husband's comment in the last post...that I scored the game winning kickball run.
Although that is true, don't let that delude you into thinking things are fine. Things are totally not fine and kickball is the devil's sport.
A few days after our first kickball game (in which I almost busted my face) we went to Sports Authority to buy bikes. Because why should my humiliation be reserved only for the kickball field? Let's spread it all around town!
I was in the dressing room trying on bike shorts. That's right folks, bike shorts. Or is it biker shorts?
The point is, when I decide to ride a bike, I fully commit. No half-assing it for this biker chick. There's no full-assing it either. I opted out of buying the bike shorts with butt/vagina padding. Which, in retrospect, was a very terrible idea. I guess you could say I'm a three-quarter-asser. Or something.
While I was checking out which pair of shorts made my ass look the best, the husband shouts at me, "What size shoe are you?"
The husband: Are you sure you're not a three?
Me: Uh...yeah. Totally sure.
When I exited the dressing room the husband shoved a pair of cleats at me. "Here, try these on," he said.
Me: These are a size three. A child's size three.
The husband: They might fit.
Me: I'm a six!
The husband: Just try them on.
Me: I'm a six!
The husband: They're only ten dollars!
Me: Well, then, by all means, cut off part of my feet. Do what ever is necessary to make them fit. We must get those shoes!
The husband (dirty look): grumble, grumble, grumble.
We walked over to a giant mountain of clearance shoes and the husband began tossing shoes around trying to find a pair of size six cleats.
The husband: Here try these.
Me: Those are a five. I need a six.
A few minutes later...
The husband: Try these.
Me: Those are a six and a half. I need a six. Say it with me. Siiiiiiiixxxx.
The husband: Just hold them up to your foot to see if they feet.
Me: (heavy sigh)
The husband: Perfect!
Me: Perfect? There's an inch of room at the top.
The husband: That's how shoes fit.
Me: Are you kidding me? Look at your shoe right now. Do you have a whole inch of room after your toes?
Guess what? He did not.
The husband: Fine.
He takes me over the wall of cleats. The non-clearance wall of cleats.
The husband: Here, these are a six. Try these on.
Me: They're seventy dollars. I'm not paying seventy dollars for a stupid pair of cleats. You can't even wear them with a dress.
The husband: They'll help you run in the clay!
Me: I don't care! After this season, I'm never playing kickball again!
The husband: But it was fun!
Me: (evil glare)
The husband: Ooh, try these on. They're only thirty dollars.
Me: Those are boys'.
The husband: Try these. They're girls.'
Me: They're pink. I'm not going to prance around the field in pink shoes.
I would just like to take this opportunity to point out this is exactly why you should never go shoe shopping with a man. If I'm spending seventy bucks on shoes, they better be cute boots or sexy stilettos.
The husband: Here, this are girl's size six non-pink shoes. Try them on.
Me: I don't have socks.
He picks up a pair of socks from a basket on the floor.
Me: Ew, I'm not putting those on. Do you know how many feet have worn those?
The husband: (sigh) You don't need socks. Just put your feet in the shoes.
Me: EW!!!! Do you know how many...
The husband: Just do it.
Me: You want me to try on these shoes so badly that you're willing to listen to me obsess for the next five days that I've contracted some sort of foot fungus that will travel all the way up my body resulting in my entire lower half being amputated?
The husband: ..............No.
Good choice, husband. Good choice.
We left the store cleat-less. I spent the next game running around the bases like a spaz while the husband looked on oh-so-proudly.
Kickball: Making Marriages Stronger...Or Something...