"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