Back in college the aforementioned boy and girl went to a screening on campus of the movie Philadelphia. For the sake of this story let's just assume that it was special showing of a classic Tom Hanks film, and not the first run of the movie. Because that film came out a really long time ago. In my head I'm 23 so the math doesn't work otherwise.
The previous week, the boy had convinced the girl to buy some classic Chuck Taylors. All Stars. High-tops. In black. Not her normal shoe. She was the type who gravitated toward Birkenstocks. Oh, the things we'll do when in love. Then she made the fateful move. She wore them to the theater. Dun dun duuuuun! [That would be the ominous foreboding musical cue.]
As they settled in with their Twizzlers and popcorn, and Tom Hanks was dying, and Denzel was conflicted, and Springsteen was singing, the boy started laughing.
Laughter during this particular movie is something I'm not thinking the director was going for. I'm pretty sure the director was going for tears. But the boy did not cry. He laughed. He laughed and he pointed. He was pointing at the Chucks. And the girl was mortified. Although she soon realized that it wasn't about the shoes, the damage was already done. Those All Stars spent many months sitting in the closet before they ultimately graced the shoe rack at Good Will. The girl never bought Chuck Taylors for herself again. [Don't worry, this isn't a tragedy.]
A few years later [or perhaps many] the girl started a blog. And the boy laughed. Then he actually blamed it on the Chuck Taylors. Yes, he actually did. He then self-diagnosed as having Chuck Taylor Syndrome: the inability to appropriately express emotion or discomfort. But the girl knew better. So this time she laughed, too.
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