• Sahar Abdulaziz


One of these things is not like the others, One of these things just doesn't belong, Can you tell which thing is not like the others

By the time I finish my song? [Artist: Sesame Street]


I’ve become that old lady.

You know the kind.

-The type who spends more time picking out her slippers than her hairstyle.

-The type who decides what she is going to eat by how soon she plans to go back to bed.

-The one who travels with a bunch of sucking candies in her handbag offering them around like a dope dealer. “Want a candy? -Want a candy? -You’re coughing, -here take a candy. How about you, want a candy too?”

Yesterday the hubby, son and I went to the mall. I have been complaining incessantly for weeks about the noticeable deterioration of my current foot apparel, i.e.: slippers. Whining about how the holes on the bottom were now large enough to pass a small vessel through. I had complained to the point that we had to make a special excursion out to purchase them because of course, I only know of one store that carries this particular brand.

For the record, I didn’t invite my son, now almost eighteen years old who only piggybacked the trip for the chance of a free meal. He heard ‘shopping’ and his mind dove head first into his stomach. Husband came along because he was stuck. Between the both of them, I knew a headache was forming behind my eyes but decided to make the best of it.

So off we went-

And don’t you know, as soon as we entered the store, a gloriously big bin greeted us! Well more me than us, but that didn’t sway the fact that the tub remained filled to the brim with my most favorite slippers in the entire universe. All there, waiting for the plucking to begin.

“My slippers! Look! I told you they would have them,” I gleefully yelled loud enough for the entire store to hear me.

Son rolls eyes, -does an immediate about-face and tries to look like he’s not with me. Husband is unfazed. Continues to stand by my side, patiently waiting for me to grab a pair so we can go, pretending not to be inwardly thrilled that the annual slipper search is almost over.

“Oh look, these are cute,” I tell him. “No, no no, I don’t like this pair. Is that camouflage?”

Son walks completely away, leans on a door, head pressed firmly against the window, but I'm not done embarrassing him. If this kid thinks he can con a meal out of us, he's going to have to pay somehow.

“Why do they always have to put small bows on them," I complain. "I’m not seven years old.”

Husband now tries to slink away and join son, but not so fast, buddy. I promptly reel him back with, “Hon? Which pair do you like? Ignore this one, I don’t do teddy bears.”

He gives me that look that begs relief. “Pick out whatever you want. I’m hungry.”

Now Son’s head snaps back to attention. His ears have picked up on the word, hungry. I continue rummaging through the bin, checking sizes, ignoring the both of them.

“Dad. Make mom pick a pair," pleaded Son. "I’m starving. Please. I beg you.”

“Leave your mother alone. She needs slippers.”

“Aren’t you hungry?” he asks his dad, trying to work his con.

“The more you leave her alone, the faster your mother can decide, so knock it off.”

Not appeased, Son approaches bin, bends over, grabs any pair.

“Here, these are nice, Ma. Take these. Let’s go,” he says all perky, trying to plant a kiss on my cheek to win me over.

By now, we have the attention of the entire staff watching us highly amused from behind the counter. It’s probably safe to say they've never seen these slippers get so much unbridled attention. From the corner of my eye, I catch one store clerk chuckling.

“I can pick out my own slippers, thank you,” I inform my son.

“Come on Ma. I’m hungry.”

“Remember, you didn’t have to come.” I know what that kid's thinking before he says it, but I love to torment the boy.” "Matter of fact, you weren't even invited."

“I thought we were going out to eat. How hard can it be to pick out a pair of stupid slippers?” he replies with a groan.

Now husband catches on, annoyed that I am being distracted from the mission and interjects. “Didn’t I tell you to leave your mother alone? Let her pick out her slippers so we can get out of here, already.”

And with that, he throws his arm around his son’s shoulders and whispers something conspiratorial in his ear, that makes them both laugh.

I totally despise them sometimes...

Unable to decide, I grab four pairs in my size. Yes, four pairs. The way I destroy them, three months a pair sounds about right for this year. And yes, they have bows. ALL OF THEM, because apparently I'm the kind of old lady who needs to wear bows on her feet.

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