Sometimes I feel like an idiot. Some times I am an idiot.

A few weeks ago I went on a canoeing trip down the Flint River with one of my oldest friends, Rob Davis, I wore my favorite shoes, my six year-old black Skechers. By the time we got to the end of our trek, these shoes which had lasted through three years of teaching high school English, countless camping trips, not a few heavy yard working chores, two marriages, and one divorce were done for. The black supple leather had become gray and cracked. The right sole was beginning to break free of the rest of the shoe. One shoestring had completely gone missing and the other had dispatched its greater half on a search and rescue mission for its AWOL brethren. The inner foot cushions were now sponges, squeezing out water and minnows with every step.

And there was a smell.

So I had to buy a new pair of shoes.

A married junior college instructor with a kid, while he has slightly more income, has far less disposable money than a single unprocreated high school English teacher, so Skechers were out. I thought of the Goodwill or Salvation Army stores, but my pride hadn't sank that far, yet. I opted, therefore, for the Super Walmart.

As it turned out, their cheap-ass Skecher rip-offs, Faded Glory, were on sale the day I ventured in, so I tried on the left shoe of their size eight and a half, and was most pleasantly pleased with the fit. My foot bounced comfortably on the cushion, and my toes had plenty of wiggle room. I could see paying fifteen dollars for that kind of comfort.

And I did.

Of course once the purchase had been made, I went straight to my Jeep, took of the old and tired Skechers (I had worn them because I had a camping trip that night, and I wanted to give them one last outing), and slipped on my sleek new footwear.

Again, the left shoe felt like heaven; the right, however, was a little tight. No terribly so, just a little pinching on my insole. I assured myself that they just needed breaking in and by the end of the day, they'd be like old friends.

And they were. They were still mildly annoying, and they wouldn't fit right, but I couldn't let go of them now. On one hand I'm stubborn, and on the other I'm bullheaded. I felt convinced that within the next week they would straighten up and fit right.

Besides, I kinda liked them now. I could no more take them back than I could tell my oldest and dearest bosom pals to take a long hike of a tall mountain. I would persevere.

Sure enough, after a couple of weeks, they began to feel better, or rather I began to grow used to them. I convinced myself they were simply the shoddily products of an Asian sweatshop workforce, and I should be glad that even one shoe fit well and quit bitching about the other. Who needs a comfortable right foot anyway?

So I persevered until this morning. There they were at the foot of my bed like every morning waiting patiently for my feet to enter their dark, warm recesses.

Today, however, I noticed the tongues for the first time.

More specifically, I noticed the tags in different places. I picked them up for a closer look.

Then I noticed the numbers: the left read 8 1/2 as it should, but the left . . . the left read 7 1/2. I hadn't checked the size of both shoes in the box but had simply assumed that they'd both be 8 1/2's.

Well I'd weathered them this long, I'd weather them some more. Thus I put them on.

I noticed that my right foot seemed slightly higher than my left. I sat back on my bed and examined the soles. Not only were the patterns different, but the right sole was a good quarter of an inch thicker than the left.

Other differences began to present themselves: The stitching was different. One tongue was slightly wider than the other. The heel tabs had slightly different shapes.

This was not simply the work of overextended Asian sweatshop girls. These were two entirely different shoes.

And I can do nothing about it now.

How can I go to the customer service desk and explain that I have walked around for well nigh a month in these shoes and just today realized they didn't match?

I can stand a lot of things, even ridicule. But to have the snaggle-toothed overly made-up fat lady who works the customer service desk at my local Walmart laugh at me is too much.

I will therefore bear my shame and my pain and my off-kilter legs in silence.

Well, except for you folks, but hey, I suspect Scott and possibly Rob are the only people reading this, and they already know I'm an idiot.