I walk into my chiropractor’s office, which is where I spend a minimum of one hour per week. This is down from two months worth of three appointments per week. Yay for that.
In any case, I walk in and the reception (who is a girl) says, “Oh, hi Wendy. Did you get your hair cut?” (I say yes, and the next thing she asks me is if I like it, which was kind of weird, because it felt like she was asking my permission for her to hate it, but since I didn’t, she couldn’t!)\
Then, I walk into the special room where the magic happens and as soon as I’m laying there ass up on the table, he says, “Oooh, new shoes!” and then we proceeded to have a 10 minute conversation on how I’m at the age where I can only mildly appreciate Chuck Taylors. I was just impressed that he realized I had new shoes.
Sigh. As I was writing this, I looked at the bottom of my right shoe and realized the price tag was still on it. And here I thought my chiropractor just really cared about my choice in footwear.