Watch where you walk

Dear You,

Sitting in waiting rooms requires a certain level of patience, and I guess I can always use more practice. Generally I bring something to occupy my mind -- a newspaper, this morning, and often a book; but my iTouch is also useful if there's connectivity. I am not averse, however, to looking around and thinking my thoughts when other avenues are not possible.

This is why my attention was fixed on a dreadful pair of lime-green Crocs (I think I have the name right) covering the feet of the fellow across from me. I'd looked at his face, of course, and quickly determined that he had enjoyed rather too many french fries for one lifetime, and then -- avoiding the rudeness that accompanies discovered staring -- dropped my eyes to the floor. That's when I discovered the footwear.

I shall never be invited to participate in a fashion show, and I am well aware that my appearance in public never rises above Acceptable. Still. Those shoes really should never appear outside one's house unless one stays in the back yard to weed the roses or rotate the compost soil. Whatever impression this fellow, stuffed into his blue jeans, might have retained was surely lost at his first step outside this morning.