The Case of the White Sandals

Wheel, Chief, Ozzie, The Absent-Minded Professor: These are among the nicknames I had in high school (no explanations available). Now, well into my twilight years . . . Uh, wait! That phrase needs re-tooling. How about . . . Now, well into my sunset years . . . Rats! Now that I am old, I take some comfort in the last nickname; it is proof that my current forgetfulness is not a symptom of advancing senile dementia; indeed, I’ve always been scatter-headed.

The most recent example of Memory Lapse is The Case of the White Sandals. Prior to a brief vacation in North Georgia in June, I bought a couple of outfits that needed white sandals. Now here’s the complication: I have seriously bad feet. Seriously. To be reasonably pain-free, I can wear only a few styles of shoes. And, to make things worse, my shoe size (long and narrow) is not generally available. I tried my usual shoe store in Columbus with no luck and then decided that the vacation trip would be a good time to locate the necessary almost-comfortable sandals. So my patient, long-suffering friends allowed me to play shoe detective throughout the trip and listened to me moan about my foot problems. We wasted incalculable time in boring shoe stores. No shoes found. On a business trip to Atlanta the next week, I tried again. No luck. Then last week I found the sandals I wanted. In my closet. In new condition. I don’t remember buying them and don’t know how long they have been in the closet.

At least I remembered that I forgot. Sigh.