I'll preface the story that follows with two biographical elements to keep in mind: Generally, I do not like people; and I'm looking (unsuccessfully) for a new place to live and time is running out, so--as hard as it may be to fathom--I'm more irritable now than I normally would be.
So tonight my old lady and I went out to eat at Hyde Park Bar & Grill, which we eat at fairly frequently, and we got seated in one of the smaller front rooms. In these rooms, you are occupying one of three tables. It's pretty close quarters, as these rooms are probably 10' x 5'. Now in close quarters, I think it's generally regarded as being gauche to talk too loudly. Luckily, we were seated two feet from a table of three middle-aged women, who were having an especially stimulating conversation about things ranging from "helicopter parents"--who the fuck even says a phrase like that? I know I've never heard anyone say anything like "helicopter parents" in my life, and I hope I never hear it again--to "I mean I've lived in Texas my whole life and I've never been to Terlingua". This conversation would not have been that problematic had it taken place at some reasonable decibel level. Instead, in a very small room with people sitting around them, it was an offensively obtrusive conversation. For starters, how the fuck could you have lived in Texas your whole life and never been to Terlingua? I've lived here for less than five years, and I've been there. What the fuck? Second, I don't need to hear that you love shoes. No one needs to hear that. And when I'm eating, I don't want anyone at the table next to me lifting their feet above the table level. I didn't say anything to this table because I must have some shred of politeness in me (which I am currently undermining, but if there is a better place than the faceless internet to spew forth my ire, I've not come across it), but I can't imagine my irritation went unnoticed.
Now I can't imagine I've never been too loud at a restaurant. I know I've been loud (or perhaps lewd) enough to get escorted from my seat at Miller Park (I did not curse at all, and we did get escorted back to our seats fairly quickly), but never did I lift my feet up near the table for all to see my shoes. That's just gross.
The moral of this story is: Keep your feet on the floor when you're eating dinner, or you'll get an angry blog written about you. And try to keep it down. I will.