Waiting For The Other Shoe

I've spent most of my half-life so far waiting for the other shoe to drop. God's shoe. From high, high above, crashing down on my head with every warning imaginable. It will be a boot, likely. Hard and heavy, like a motorcycle boot. But there are other options, other shoes to drop, I suppose. God's probably got a whole closet full, like some rich, suburban housewife all jammed up with emotional issues: the red pumps of war, the green flats of greed, the brown oxfords of disease, and of course the big black boots of "You're screwed." I'm afraid of all of them, to be honest. Jen says I'm crazy, that life is good. I decide to test her. I trudge down the hall to my room, dripping January's slush on the white carpet. Taking one boot off, I set it by the edge of the bed and lay down, one boot off and one boot on, thinking about shoes, and God, and how I hate winter. Then I take the sole remaining boot off and dangle it over the side of the bed. It feels as if I hold the power of the entire world, all the destinies of men and shoes, between the thumb and forefinger of my right hand. I wonder what will happen if I drop it, if the other shoe finally drops, the "47 years of dreading" wet winter boot. This must be like what Robert Oppenheimer felt as he prepared to light the fuse on the first atomic bomb. Would the fission run endlessly until it consumed the whole world? Was this the ultimate size 12 black biker's boot of "You're Screwed" that was about to go off? Back then there were lots of people who needed to be killed in a hurry, so Bob closed his eyes, pinched up his face, turned his head, and lit the match, hoping for the best. It all worked out okay, except for the citizens of Hiroshima. For them this really WAS the big black boot of "You're Screwed." As I pondered this horror, lost deep in thought, gravity completed its unseen work and the boot fell to earth. I went cold and fetal, waiting for the blast wave and the mushroom cloud that was sure to follow. Instead, the boot just clunked onto my carpet and fell over on its side, unmoving, like a pulled, dead leather turtle.

I guess my wife was right. Life must be good...