Feet. Shoes. Fit. All those shoes … they seemed to fit at the time.
Pink satin ballet shoes. They were so pretty. No one wanted to tell me that those long gawky legs would never belong to a prima ballerina.
Shiny patent leather Sunday shoes. A bit tight, I remember, but I felt so special in those Mary Janes. I made everyone admire them. My brother was not impressed in the least, but I didn’t care. I was glad I didn’t have to wear his dorky brown shoes.
My first heels for the 6th grade cotillion. Teetering on the edge of adulthood. Dyed to match my aqua dress.
Hockey cleats, tennis shoes, riding boots. Ah, at last some comfort. I was on the tennis team and played field hockey and rode. Camaraderie, laughs, and making a steal from “Straight from Hell Harriet” right before she scored her tenth goal.
White wedding shoes, work shoes, anniversary shoes, soft flats to ease a bulging belly, funeral shoes.
Does it really matter what fits? We cram our blisters, corns, and plantar warts into all those shoes and just keep on dancing.