I stood at the end of the farm field waiting for the monstrous green machine to come near.

It roared close and stopped. The driver, a lifelong farmer, opened the cab door and climbed down from the tractor. He looked like Paul Bunyan on a good day. He had a week’s growth of beard and was wearing a gimme cap advertising a brand of seed corn, a Carhartt shirt and pink Crocs.

What is wrong with this picture? Pink Crocs? Plastic shoes with large drain holes that help feet breathe while collecting small stones. I wear Crocs, but they are camouflage-colored so that no one would notice them.

I wish I had been wearing pink Crocs when I caught my wife eyeing my feet. She focused on my loafers, held together by several colors of duct tape, as if she were attempting to win a staring contest. The shoes flapped like clown shoes when I walked. That kept me from ever stepping on a cat. In other words, the shoes were barely broken in. They weren’t much to look at, but they had a couple of things going for them. They were comfortable and they were paid for. I always wear shoes when I take a bath. I do that in case of a fire. It is wise behavior but hard on shoes.

“Look at those shoes,” she said, her words dripping disgust. It was obvious to her that my footwear needed a facelift. “They no longer hold a shine.” Storm clouds drew near. “You need to get some new shoes,” said my lovely bride.

The next thing I knew, I was in the car on my way to the shoe store. I whimpered like a hound that knew he was on the way to the vet’s office for neutering. I didn’t know how I’d ended up in the vehicle. I guess my cries of, “I am not going shoe shopping!” might have been a little vague. Or perhaps, without knowing it, I had learned to speak Klingon.

Shoes are a necessity. The only joy some people get is the pleasure of taking their shoes off. It’s tough for a barefooted man to leave the house in Minnesota during the month of January. I don’t hate shoes. If I did, I would paint my feet to look like Crocs.

I walked to the shoe store like Sisyphus pushing a gigantic rock up a steep hill. I am uncomfortable in shoe stores. I feel like I do during that sticky time in the car before I decide to give in and turn on the air conditioner.

My appearance in a shoe store is akin to a Martian landing in the mall. I was like a penguin in Death Valley as I walked into an enterprise that was as dark as a Baptist saloon. I had to go to a shoe store because I’m not willing to buy shoes by telephone or online. I like being able to honk a shoehorn.

The salesman, Harry Highpants, with his trousers pulled up to his Adam’s apple, appraised my feet, and immediately guessed the size wrong.

“Boy, I thought these size nines would fit you perfectly, but it looks like we’re going to have to go with a size 13,” he bubbled in his best Dale Carnegie impersonation.

We looked at footwear. Well, my wife and Harry looked. I glanced. I admitted being proud that I could still get into the shoes I’d worn in high school, asked about the trade-in value of my old ones, and mumbled something about having headlights installed on my new shoes so I could walk at night. There was a dazzling array of specialized shoes — walking shoes and running shoes. I wondered what I would do if I were walking along, strolling the stroll of the innocent and uninformed, when a mongrel of pitbull/Rottweiler/Doberman/wolf parentage decided to pursue me in the hopes of eliminating a couple of my appendages. Would I have to stop to take off my walking shoes and put on my running shoes?

My wife didn’t hear my comments. Her hearing has become selective over the years.

It’s difficult for me to look at any price tag without flinching. This pair of overpriced footgear cost the Earth. For an extra $19.95, I could have added an extended warranty — the perfect guarantee for someone who draws a disability due to gullibility. I passed on the offer when I discovered it didn’t cover bathing damage.

When the shoe nearly fits, buy it. Better yet, buy two of them.

I left the store with shoes that pinched a bit. I’m hoping they will stretch, but having tight shoes isn’t all bad. Tight shoes take a man’s mind off his other problems.

Hartland resident Al Batt’s columns appear every Wednesday and Sunday.