My shameful problem
And a genius solution
Last week, I awoke to an email notifying me that I’d been charged for hundreds of artificial palms. I saw the words “…your purchase…” and got a delightful dopamine hit. Just the idea that there might be a package on its way to me was thrilling, it didn’t matter that it was absolute muck that I didn’t want. Send me a turd in a box, so long as it’s something I can open and I’ll be delighted.
But when it was confirmed that no, the palms wouldn’t be arriving and that I’d been robbed, I was disappointed. I’d already mentally arranged the palms in my sitting room, every inch of wall and floor would be covered with them in what I’d call my “Palm Palace.” I’d invite the neighbours around for drinks and we’d pass out from inhaling all the plastic fumes. What a night!
I’d just recovered from the disappointment of there being no Palm Palace in my future when things got worse. My summer sandals arrived and, as always, I’d to return them. I’ve abnormal feet. I hide them all year, like two hideous beasts locked up in a shoe-shaped prison. They’re as wide as patio slabs and ninety percent big toe, a hairy one at that — like something you’d find on a cartoon bigfoot.
I look at my children’s feet, with tears in my eyes, and whisper to Southside Dublin dad, “Do you think they’ve got them?” I want nothing more than for my children not to have to Google “wide sandals’ like I do, shamefully, every year.
What’s that I hear you say? “Don’t let those disgusting feet get you down, you wretched slut!” You’re right, I won’t. And I’ve a solution. I’m off to buy enough artificial palms to fill my house and to make giant sandals out of. No one will notice my gargoyle feet when they’re wrapped up in masses and masses of artificial palms. Genius.
