We were still living in California, so I couldn’t have been older than 7.  It was Easter and my mother had sewn me the most beautiful dress.  It was peach and satin and roses.  It begged for twirling and preening.  I had brand new, unscuffed patent leather mary janes to wear with it.

Oh my.  I was beautiful that Easter Sunday in my new dress and new shoes and curled hair.

Then Monday morning arrived.  I’d been given permission to wear that glorious dress to school.  I dressed.  Petticoat, dress, shoes.  I left the gloves off.  Mom said, “No.”  No mary janes.  I had to wear the ugly, the soooooooooooo ugly corrective shoes with that beauteous dress.

I was shocked.  Incredulous.  Abashed.  Pale and wan.

And, yet.  The dress was better than nothing.

I spent the whole day at school staring at the juxtaposition of the ugly shoes with the beautiful dress.  I couldn’t make the two mesh.  Complete discord.

To this day, I have to have the right shoe for the outfit.  I blame my mother.

If the only thing you can blame your mother for is your shoe fetish, you’ve had a good life.

It’s good to be me.