I can’t find my house slippers. I didn’t leave them at the grocery store or Dairy Queen because, by definition, they don’t leave the house. I’ve checked under the bed and behind the back door with no success. How silly of me to look on my closet floor for the 10th time today, as if my slippers had the ability to slip back in on their own accord.
At first I thought my wife, Sherry, had thrown them out because of their ragged exterior, maybe even because of their musty odor, but she has assured me she is not the guilty party. She gives me that sympathetic look as if I may be in steep mental decline.
I don’t think anyone in their 50s or 60s loses their house slippers. And, if they do, it’s no big deal. I’m in my 70s and I’ve lost my favorite house slippers and, yes, it is a big deal.
I’ve considered posting reward signs around the neighborhood with a mug shot of my house slippers, but I don’t want to appear desperate.
So I sit down on the couch and pat the heads of my puppies. They smile up at me. Bingo!