French Names

The two men approaching the customer service desk were a classic odd couple.  The one in the lead was of slightly short stature, round in shape.  He wore a rumpled button down shirt under one of those well worn raincoats that might be brown or might be gray.  Balding wisps of hair extended from his head in most directions. 

His partner was a full head taller, a feature accentuated by the red and black plaid wool hunter’s cap, complete with earflaps, which topped his frame.  His face was long and thin, matching the rest of his body.  His raincoat matched his partner’s. 

“We’re looking for a book on how to pronounce French names”, the first stated as he reached the desk.  This was a request both broad and narrow.  “Pronounce French names” was typed into the computer but the search came up empty.   The two appeared crestfallen.

“How about I try looking for a book on using French names for a new baby?” the bookseller suggested.  The pair brightened with hope.  Sure enough, the result listed two books on French names for expectant parents.  Neither was in stock but both could be ordered and in the store within a few days. 

“That’s great”, number one said with obvious relief.  “You see, we’re getting a pair of French Poodles puppies next week and want them to have real French names.  Let’s order them both”.  Number two smiled with joy.

A smile crept across the bookseller’s face.  “I’m sure these will be very helpful.” 

Now the tall partner chimed in.  “Yup, and want to be sure that we pronounce the names right so that they’ll know when we’re speaking to them!”

The order was placed and the two left the store smiling and chatting with each other in anticipation.  

The bookseller was left with the image of two middle aged men earnestly calling “Jack! Jack!” to a slumbering dog who doesn’t respond until one snaps his fingers in realization, elbows his partner, and with a knowing look on his face now yells ”Jacques! Jacques!” - at which point the hound leaps to his feet and bounds happily toward the proud, beaming couple.

Dishwasher Cabinet

As Life’s Certainties Crumble

Part of life is weathering the realizations that ideas and principals you’ve been taught growing up are wrong.  I grew up being told that our government and the people who run it have our best interests at heart.  I learned that was an idealistic dream in the late ‘60s.  I was taught that one needed to respect authority and those in positions of power.  It took only a few weeks into joining the workforce that I realized how the Peter Principal worked; that most bosses and supervisors weren’t necessarily smarter or wiser, in fact most were dumber and more foolish, they were just more aggressive.

And so now I consider myself much wiser and considerably more safely cynical.  I’m snug in my skepticism and cozy in my disbelief.  That didn’t prepare me for what I learned last week. How was I to know that 55 years of shoe tying as I knew it was all a lie?

Tying my shoes is as automatic as breathing. I estimate that I’ve tied my shoes more than 30,000 times over the years.  I estimate that the last 29,750 were done without thinking.  I estimate that 10,000 of those shoe tyings were retying shoes that came undone.  I’ve tied my shoes in the dark, looking the other way, and while involved in conversation. I had taken it for granted that shoelaces, by their very nature, become untied during the course of a day.  Just retie on autopilot and go on.

I hate to blame my parents, but they taught me the wrong way to tie my shoes.  I’ve been taught what is known as the “Granny Knot”.  I bet there’s a good chance you were taught the Granny Knot, too.  After you tie you laces, does the bow run longitudinally along the length of your shoe?  Do you laces invariably become untied?  You’re not alone.

Once I discovered this I had to begin the painful process of relearning to tie my laces.  I’m 4 years old all over again. My fingers are spastic.  What once took 3 seconds now takes 10.  What once was done while watching the news or telling a joke now takes concentration that forces my tongue out the side of my mouth.  I now finish lacing my shoes with the same sense of pride I felt 55 years ago.  It’s taking a LONG time to get used to.  All those years of habit and muscle memory won’t go away easily. And I’m haunted by the thought that by the time this becomes second nature I’ll need someone to tie my laces for me anyway.

Learn the correct way to tie your laces at Ian's Shoelace Site.