"If the Slippers Fit, Buy Them"

By Jerry Zezima

I am a human Bigfoot. I am taking the bold step of admitting this for two unsettling reasons: 

1. My feet seem to be getting bigger.

2. The most fashionable shoes I own are a brand-new pair of slippers.

The alarming increase in the length, width and overall size of my already tremendous tootsies was evident when I purchased the aforementioned soft and comfy footwear, which I wear not just around the house, but to throw out the garbage, get the mail and, if I am too lazy to put on sneakers, run errands in.

Speaking of sneakers, for most of my adult life, which according to many people has yet to begin, I have worn size 11. But when I purchased the pair before the ones I currently wear, I found out that my feet had widened and that I am now, fittingly, size 11 wide.

Last year, when I bought a pair of slides to replace the faded rubber ones I had been wearing since the second Bush administration, I found that I needed size 13 because my feet had apparently ballooned to the dimension of dinghies.

“Do they come with oars?” I asked a young sales associate.

“No,” he said.

“Will I need a boating license?” I wondered.

“Not unless you wear them in the water,” he answered, adding that slides — like every kind of footwear, including sneakers and, yes, slippers — run a little small.

I didn’t even bother to ask how they could run if I wasn’t in them.

Now I have purchased a new pair of slippers because the old ones look like a couple of deceased wolverines.

My wife, Sue, who thinks I have the ugliest feet on earth and is not shy about saying so, went to a store to buy slippers for me because they would be cheaper than the ones I wanted to order from the catalogue of a national clothing chain.

“They’re $80!” she protested. “I can get you the same pair for $24 and save at least half that with my store coupons.”

My wife, God bless her, would spare no expense for me!

I was feeling good about the financial windfall when Sue came home with a pair of slippers that were size 10-11.

I tried them on. Or, rather, I tried to try them on, but I couldn’t jam in my colossal dogs without cutting off the blood flow to my lower extremities.

And this was with my bare feet. I wear socks with slippers when I am going on an important mission to pick up pizza or Chinese food.

The next day I put on my sneakers and went to the store with Sue to exchange the slippers for the next size, which was 12-13.

Not only that, but I wanted to make sure the pair I got were fashionable. That means they had to be tan — I like a neutral color that will go with pajamas or sweatpants, part of my geezer ensemble — and not have laces.

Laces on slippers are stupid because they look terrible and, even worse, don’t stay tied. Plus, they do nothing to help the slippers fit properly.

“It looks like my feet are growing,” I told a nice salesperson named Theresa.

“What size do you usually wear?” she asked.

“Eleven,” I said.

“These slippers cover two sizes,” Theresa explained. “If the 10-11s are too small, you’ll need 12-13s.”

I brought my ratty old slippers for comparison.

“They’ve seen better days,” Theresa acknowledged.

“Put them back in the bag,” Sue whispered to me. “They smell.”

I took the 12-13s, which fit like gloves (maybe I can wear them on my hands, too), and was amazed at the savings we got with Sue’s coupons.

“Do you like your new slippers?” she asked when we got home.

“They’re priceless,” I said. “And now I’ll really be fashionable when I take out the garbage.”

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima

"No Run-of-the-Treadmill Machine"

By Jerry Zezima

For a guy who has often been told to take a hike, I am getting nowhere fast. That’s because I have gone back to the gym, after taking a breather for several weeks, only to discover that you need to be a rocket scientist to use the new treadmills.

The old machines were like me: simple, serviceable, a little outdated, nothing fancy, with moving parts that didn’t move as well as they used to, made suspicious noises when they did move and breathed a sigh of relief when they mercifully stopped moving.

But I needed to get back on track — or on tread — so I returned with absolutely no fanfare and saw that the shiny, sophisticated new machines belonged on the bridge of the Starship Enterprise.

“Do you need a degree in calculus to operate these things?” I asked a smart staffer named Maddox.

“Sometimes,” he answered. “It took me a couple of weeks.”

It was saying something considering that Maddox, who has grown up with modern technology, is 20 years old.

“I’m Generation Z,” he said.

“Nice to meet you,” I replied. “I’m Preparation H.”

“What’s your goal here?” Maddox asked.

“Not to leave in the back of an ambulance,” I said, adding that my cardiologist wants me to do cardio exercises.

“The treadmill is good for that,” said Maddox.

“I’m told that walking is the best kind of exercise, but I don’t get anywhere on the treadmill,” I said. “If I walk outside, I’d cover a lot of ground, but I could also get run over by a car or bitten by a dog.”

“You don’t have to worry about cars or dogs at the gym,” Maddox noted.

“But I do have to worry about not being able to operate these new treadmills,” I said.

The biggest problem is with the programs, which include 5k, 10k, Fat Burn, Rolling Hills, Manual Spring 8, Target HR, Incline, Interval Speed and Fitness Test.

“I don’t know what they mean, but I hope Fitness Test is easier than an algebra test,” I said.

“Are you bad at math?” Maddox asked.

“Yes,” I said. “And I have the checkbook to prove it.”

“Don’t worry, the treadmill does the counting for you,” said Maddox. “Do you know how to turn it on?”

“Sure,” I said. “Whisper sweet nothings into the screen. That’ll turn it on.”

Maddox pointed to an electronic button.

“I suppose I’ll have to put one foot in front of the other,” I said.

“That would help,” he replied. “You can see how miles per hour you are going, how many calories you are burning and what your heart rate is.”

I set the speed at 1 mph because, naturally, I didn’t want to get a ticket. I also didn’t want to collapse, be pulled under the running belt and come back out flattened like a flounder.

I soon found that 1 mph was slow even by my pathetic physical standards, so I doubled the speed, increased the incline and walked briskly while staying in the same spot — and sounding like an asthmatic mountain goat — for 10 minutes.

By the time I stopped, I had traveled, loosely speaking, a quarter of a mile. I also had burned 29 calories. And my heart rate, which started at 70, went all the way up to 93.

“I have a pulse,” I told Maddox.

“It looks like,” he said. “It also looks like you’ve gotten the hang of the treadmill. You mastered it faster than I did.”

“And I’m not even a rocket scientist,” I said. “But I am a geezer, so I don’t want to overdo it. When I get home, I’ll walk to the refrigerator for a beer. Then I’ll really be getting somewhere.”

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima

"A Scan to Dye For"

By Jerry Zezima

If there is one thing I don’t want to get off my chest, it’s hair, which is usually ripped out by the roots when I have a medical procedure.

What I do want to get off my chest is an aortic aneurysm, which is why I recently had a CAT scan, at the end of which my chest hair was — sorry, you guessed wrong — not ripped out by the roots because a very nice and gentle radiologic technologist named Tammy felt my pain and prevented me from having it.

The scan, officially called a “gated CTA,” was ordered by my cardiologist, who last year at this time said I needed open-heart surgery because my aneurysm was large enough to be a float in the Thanksgiving Day parade.

The afternoon before the procedure, which was scheduled to be performed early the next morning, the surgeon called to say I didn’t need an operation after all. What saved me was a CAT scan that showed the aneurysm was no larger than a birthday balloon and should be left alone but closely monitored.

That’s why I had this recent scan.

“You’re very lucky,” said a personable registered nurse named Lourdy, who painlessly slipped a needle into a vein in my right arm so I could get an IV with dye that would flow into me during the scan.

“Are you good with contrasts?” she asked.

“You mean between good and evil?” I said. “I hope I’m on the right side of that one.”

“I was talking about the dye,” said Lourdy, who complimented me on my knees when, after donning paper pants and an open gown, I knelt down to tie my sneakers so I wouldn’t slip on the smooth floor.

“It’s my first day without Velcro,” I told her.

“I dislocated my right knee over the summer dancing at a wedding,” Lourdy said. “I needed surgery. The therapy was intense.”

“You had therapy in tents? Not even in a building?” I spluttered. “What kind of treatment was that?”

Lourdy smiled and walked me to the room where I would have the scan.

“Will I be in a tube?” I asked.

“It’s more like a doughnut,” she answered.

“Jelly or glazed?” I inquired.

“Glazed,” Lourdy said.

“Just like my eyes,” I responded.

I was then greeted by Tammy, who asked if I had any questions.

“Yes,” I said. “If this is a gated scan, how come it’s not in a gated community?”

“We moved,” said Tammy, who explained that gated actually refers to “gait,” like rhythm.

“I don’t have rhythm,” I said.

“Yes, you do,” Tammy said. “It may be white-boy rhythm, but you have it. At least your heart does. That’s what the scan will show.”

After I was asked to lie down, Tammy stuck small adhesive electrodes on my hairy chest.

“Most guys would rather have open-heart surgery without anesthesia than have these things ripped off,” I said.

“Are you one of those guys?” Tammy asked.

“Yes,” I admitted.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “It won’t hurt.”

Then I slid into the doughnut, raised my arms above my head and, listening to instructions, breathed deeply, exhaled, held it, then breathed normally. This was repeated several times.

The final part of the scan involved the injection of dye into my entire body. At first I didn’t feel anything. Then came a blast of heat, from head to toes, before it was all over.

“That was quite a sensation,” I told Tammy. “I felt a warmth in my paper pants.”

“All the way down to your tush,” she stated correctly. “Now comes the scary part.”

Tammy began to remove the electrodes from my chest. It was quick and painless.

“I hope the scan shows that you don’t need open-heart surgery,” she said.

“I hope so, too,” I replied. “And thanks for making sure this wasn’t a hairy situation.”

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima

"A Lean, Mean Sleeping Machine"

By Jerry Zezima

When a guy tells incredibly stupid jokes during the day and emits window-rattling snores at night, his wife could not be blamed for telling him to keep his mouth shut.

That is why my wife, Sue, was thrilled to hear that a respiratory technician told me the same thing.

“Keep your mouth shut,” said Devin Moncayo, who was giving me a demonstration of the CPAP machine I would be taking home to stop my snoring.

“My wife has been telling me that for years,” I said. “And not just at night.”

Keeping my mouth open — in addition to potentially attracting nesting animals such as moths, birds and, God forbid, bears — is the main reason I have sleep apnea.

I was diagnosed with the disorder earlier this year after two things happened: (a) Sue complained that my snoring was not only keeping her awake but registering on the Richter scale and (b) I spent a night in a hospital to take part in a sleep study.

It was determined that I have a moderate form of apnea and should get a CPAP machine, which would stop my snoring by shooting air into my nostrils and filling my brain, or what’s left of it, with the oxygen it hadn’t been getting while I was asleep.

This explained not only my snoring but, to use sophisticated medical terminology, my complete idiocy.

So I had to spend another night in the same hospital to test out a CPAP machine, which I would be getting in a couple of weeks.

Sure enough, within that very same time frame, I got an email saying I should pick up the machine.

That’s when I met Devin, who gave me a brief tutorial on how to use the CPAP, which, in Russian, stands for Snap Crackle And Pop.

In English, it stands for Continuous Positive Airway Pressure.

“The machine comes in two parts,” Devin said. “There’s a humidifier tank that should be cleaned once a week with Dawn.”

“I don’t know who she is,” I admitted. “And don’t tell my wife about her.”

“I mean Dawn dishwashing liquid,” Devin explained. “You have to rinse the tank thoroughly, then fill it with filtered water.”

“If I don’t, will bubbles come out my nose?” I asked.

“Possibly,” Devin answered. “I’m sure they would keep your wife awake, too.”

The second part of the machine, which is the size of a clock radio and can be placed on a nightstand, is the nose pillow, which would be attached to a tube connected to the CPAP and go into my nostrils.

“You’ll have to breathe through your nose,” said Devin, who added that I should keep my mouth shut or I would start snoring again.

“Do you use a CPAP machine?” I wondered.

“No,” said Devin, who is 24 and lives with his parents. “But my father does. He used to snore pretty badly. The walls shook. It kept my mom up at night, so he got the machine two or three years ago and he hasn’t snored since.”

“Does your mother snore?” I inquired.

“No,” Devin said. “Most women don’t.”

“My wife sometimes does,” I told him. “But I guess it’s like the purring of a kitten compared to my lion-like snores.”

“Take the machine home and your wife will be very grateful,” Devin promised.

That night, I hooked it up, kissed Sue nighty-night, stuck the nose pillow in my nostrils, turned on the CPAP and drifted off into dreamland.

The next morning, Sue reported that I didn’t snore.

“You did,” I said. “Maybe you should use the machine.”

“Forget it,” she replied.

The following night, as an experiment, I slept without the CPAP. Again, I didn’t snore.

“I guess I don’t need it after all,” I said.

“I don’t care if you use it or not,” Sue said. “As long as you don’t keep me up.”

“Just to make sure,” I said, “I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima

"Going, Going, Not Yet Gone"

By Jerry Zezima

I would say that my wife and I have an open door policy in our house, but it takes us so long to leave the premises that we have to close the door or flies will get in.

No matter where we are going, either together or separately, we need a list of things to remember or it will take us more time to go out than it will to come back.

Here is the list Sue and I follow whenever one of us is about to go to the store, go to the gym or just go crazy.

BATHROOM

It is no coincidence that this is No. 1.

You’d think it wouldn’t be an issue to anyone except a child, who must constantly be asked if he or she has to go before leaving the house, but when you get to be a certain age (old), you become like a kid again.

That’s when you start wondering if the place where you are going has a public restroom.

Sometimes Sue or I will come back home if we have more than one place to go because we couldn’t hold it if our errands entailed multiple stops.

Me: You’re back already?

Sue: I have to go to the bathroom.

Me: You went before you left.

Sue: I had three cups of coffee. And I have two more stops to make.

At this stage of life, you find yourself going from bladder to worse.

PHONE

This is what delays departures more than anything else, including the call of nature.

It happens in one of two ways:

1) You are asked by your beloved where her phone is, to which you respond, “I don’t know.” Then an all-out search ensues. It culminates when you call her number and the phone rings in: (a) another room, (b) the chair in front of the TV or (c) her pocketbook.

2) Your beloved exits the house, walks to the car, opens the door, gets in, closes the door, opens it again, gets out and comes back inside to announce: “I forgot my phone.”

Very often, you have to go through the first scenario again.

If you plan to go out, you will receive a call from the person who previously forgot her phone to ask if you can pick up a bottle of wine or go to the post office.

On the way out, you realize you left your phone on the kitchen counter.

KEYS

“Do you have your keys?” I ask Sue every day as she is about to leave for the gym.

“If I didn’t have them, I couldn’t start the car,” she invariably responds.

The problem is deciding where she will put them while she is on the treadmill. This takes some time to figure out — her leggings don’t have pockets — and leads to the following related delay.

CLOTHING

Depending on the weather forecast, it will be hard to decide what to wear. This is where I waste more time than Sue because, if it’s raining, I’ll have to look in the closet for a windbreaker or, if it’s cold, a fleece.

Sue does the same thing, but she will think more in terms of style.

“I don’t want to go out looking like I just rolled out of bed,” she will say.

“You’re going to the gym,” I will helpfully point out.

“I may go to the store afterward,” she’ll reply.

“Do you have your phone?”

“Goodbye, dear.”

SHOPPING LIST

If you’re going to the store, you need to know what to buy. That’s why, like the phone, the list is frequently forgotten and must be retrieved so the person who plans to go out can actually leave.

Before you do, however, it’s a good idea to go to the bathroom.

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima