|The Crocs, in happier times.|
When we got to the parking lot, I grabbed a buggy from near the car, carried Hank to it across the 200 degree asphalt, and sat him in the little seat. I wheeled him through the entrance, planning to beeline to the shoes. Then I heard an ancient, creaky voice saying, "Ma'am? Ma'am!" I realized I was being interpellated by the Walmart Greeter. I had never heard a Walmart Greeter actually speak, much less, um, Greet. So I had to blink for a moment or two before I could respond. This gave the blessed antediluvian soul time to state her business. "You have to keep him in that seat, hon. You can't let him get down with no shoes." She shook her head apologetically, as though letting one's child run barefoot through a big box store really should be one of the freedoms we take for granted as Americans, but this world today, what can you do? I smiled brightly and said that I was going straight to the shoes.
So that is how we were almost not well-dressed enough to enter Walmart.
And then, THEN, we get back to the shoes, and Hank turns into a tiny Tim Gunn on me. The flip flops he couldn't keep on his feet--it was comical--so those were out. And when I presented him with a pair of faux Crocs (Frocs? Crocks?) he said, "Those aren't really my style."
Oh, of course, would sir allow me to show him something in a Lightning McQueen slip-on? His style, RIGHT.
I finally found a pair of plain black canvas tennis shoes, like pretend Keds, that he agreed to wear. And they cost $3. I put them on his feet and we completed our business. At the check out counter, I wanted to have them scan his foot, but I removed one shoe instead. And then the next day I found the blue Italia Crocs behind the hot tub.
So that was a thing that happened one time. Having my sense of decorum justifiably called into question at the entrance to Walmart. xoxox-B