Her shoes

Joshua has a long outstanding request that I write about Virgie's shoes.

Virgie's last pair of shoes had huge holes by the time she threw them away. They were her only pair appropriate for regular use, so we went to Target to replace them.

The shoes for women were all god-awful, so we went two aisles down to the boys section, and she picked out two pairs that she liked.

I want to say that they differed in price by one dollar. It may have been three, certainly no more than five. Virgie had a crisis of conscience. She thought she preferred the more expensive pair, but she wasn't sure. Shouldn't she just let the price arbitrate? But what if she really did want the more expensive pair, and found herself wishing afterward that she had thrown caution to the wind? I couldn't convice her that money was no object in this case. Seriously, it's the price of two apple pies at our favorite restaurant (OK, maybe ten.) But no, she had to make the right choice. Our lives depended on it.

"We'll wish we had those $1-5 when the zombie hordes come," I falsely remember her saying. "The man at the little weapon stand will say, 'pointed stick: one dollar, baseball bat: three, nunchaku: five.'"

I think she got the more expensive ones.