Galvin crop

I’m watching television the other day — could’ve been the weekly “Bones” marathon on BBC America; could’ve been “Ocean’s 8,” a Bullock/Blanchett caper flick I’ve DVD’d and seen three or four times — when this commercial pops up before me … and, suddenly, I’m my father.

I should explain.

The ad is for shoes. Not just any shoes, but shoes you can slip into and immediately start walking — so, clearly, we’re entering science fiction territory.

I don’t know about your feet (and I don’t want to), but no shoe is going to perform like those I’m seeing … given the combination of my lack of coordination and my array of digital distresses.

But that’s not the point.

The point is that the commercial makes a big deal out of the idea that these slip-on shoes will save us valuable time we otherwise would spend bending over and tying laces.

Upon hearing this, I immediately said to myself: “Do you ever think about how much time we waste chewing?”

Which was one of the imponderables Dear Old Dad served up at the dinner table, on those rare occasions that he tolerated conversation during a meal.

Here I was, though, considering whether I actually do spend otherwise valuable time bending over and/or tying laces during the day — at least to the point that an evolutional change was necessitated in my footwear.

The next question that came to mind is obvious to anyone who has spent far too much time watching television commercials:

Where is Dr. Rick when you need him?

Dr. Rick — who, unlike Dr. Phil, Dr. Laura or Dr. John, has no last name — is a self-help guru charged with keeping new homeowners from turning into their parents.

He does this in an effort to sell insurance … but don’t don’t ask me for what company, that’s not the point.

The point is that while I’m sitting there watching Booth and Brennan catch serial killers and/or the Bullock/Blanchett gang pinch diamonds during the Met Gala, what’s left of my mind is turning into mush.

Dr. Rick might not be able to tell me why a family of hot-pink bears use toilet paper (or even why they are hot pink). Professional courtesy probably prevents him from probing libbity-bibbity into why an emu would be an effective squawksperson for a competing insurance company (don’t ask me which).

And he’d likely just shake his head and give up trying to rationalize why an advertisement for a drug that is said to alleviate genital yeast and urinary tract infections requires a Broadway song-and-dance routine set in an office or around a city fountain to inform us that it’s “really swell … a little pill with a big story to tell.”

Besides, Dr. Rick has been busy lately ordering one of his clients to remove his “Grills Just Wanna Have Fun” barbecue apron because such apparel is a clear sign that trouble lies ahead.

“You can either take it off, or I’ll take it off for you,” says the agitated self-help expert who, coincidentally, offers for sale $10 aprons that read “Aprons are for cooking. Not Dad Jokes.”

As to my current time-wasting dilemma, I’ve come to the conclusion that bending over and knotting my laces constitutes exercise, so no slip-ons for me.

And I didn’t need Dr. Rick’s help, after all. My answer came in the form of another commercial — this time, about a boy who learns to tie his own shoes with the help of his mother.

It seems the mother had been too busy buying groceries to pay attention to her kid’s woes but, with the help of a food-delivery service (the name of which I didn’t catch), she was available to coach his progress to eventual success.

Those 30 seconds were enough to convince me … although I do wonder how much time they’ll waste chewing the meals she’ll make from all that food.