I have a pair of English walking shoes that I really like. They’re clogs with black leather tops in a crisscross design and leather piping that runs around the edge where the top is connected to the bottom. Most importantly they’re very comfortable.
One day as I was slipping them on I saw that the piping had a slit in it and beneath the slit the top of the shoe was coming off the bottom. Since I had just noticed a new shoe repair shop, I immediately dropped off my beloved broken shoe.
The following week when the shoe was due to be released Hubby offered to pick it up for me, which he did…after a short argument with the repair man who insisted that a man’s brown dress shoe was mine. Hubby finally went behind the counter, dug through a big pile of shoes and came up with my walking shoe and brought it home. When I saw my wonderful shoe, I was devastated! The repair man had scrunched everything together and slapped on a dab of glue (and told hubby that was all that could be done with it). Sadly I stuck the shoe in the back of the closet wondering if I ever dared wear it again.
Day before yesterday my neighbors invited me over to celebrate the 2nd birthday of their little girl. The mom knew I was still low on energy, so she understood when I said I’d love to come long enough to watch the baby open her gifts – the mom agreed to call me when the party got to that stage.
When I got to the house it was full of people, mostly adults. I was introduced to scads of friends and family and then I took a seat to watch the birthday girl open her presents.
Once the baby had opened everything, I got up to leave and found that my neighbor had packed up huge plates of food and cake for me to take home. She slipped the plates into a paper bag, which had to be carried flat. I balanced the bag on the palms of my hands and as I took a step, I felt my English walking shoe break.
“Oh, goodness,” my neighbor exclaimed, “your shoe is broken.”
Everyone turned and looked at my feet where the side of my foot was sticking out of the side of my shoe.
“I’ll get my husband to carry the food across the street,” she offered.
Embarrassed to be wearing a shoe that looked like something a hobo would wear, I quickly said, “Oh no, I can get it.”
I tried to hurry out of the room and found that the only way I could walk was by stepping with the good shoe and dragging the bad…step with the good, drag the bad.
I tried a gallant smile on my way out, but I don’t think anyone noticed – they were all staring at my feet.
I made it out of the house, and balancing the food on one palm, I managed to remove and pick up my broken shoe. I had gotten as far as the curb when my good shoe (which up to this point had absolutely nothing wrong with it) suddenly fell apart!
Still balancing the food, I very slowly squatted down and gathered up the pieces, then tip toeing ever so lightly (so I wouldn’t ruin my embroidered socks on the rough blacktop) I hurried across the street. When I got to my driveway I looked back to make sure I hadn’t left a trail of broken shoe parts littering the neighbor’s yard and to my horror I saw that all the guests were gathered at the big bay window, waving.
Fact or fib – you be the judge.
2 comments:
The only thing that could have been better with that story would have been if you fell down in the middle of the street.
Your loving but bizarre sense of humor sister,
M.
Sure! Better for you if you'd been there to see it - but not so great for me! That would have kept you in stitches for months, I know!
Post a Comment