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2003-10-01 - 6:33 a.m.

TOEHOLD

Mr. Philately has made fun of my toes almost as long as I have known Mr. Philately. He snickers at my stubby little feet. He chortles at my stubby toes. (What can I say? Sometimes it is a great blessing that the man is easily amused.) He considers my biggest toe stubby so I am not sure he even has an appropriate word for the littlest toe, the one that tucks under the curve of its sister toe. That littlest toe may be tiny and stubby but its useful and does its job well---or at least it did until it encountered the under-the-bed drawer.

I think I broke it but finding out for sure is pointless. When you break your little toe, all the doctors do is buddy-tape it to the next one. I learned that when I was in labor with Kat. No, I did not break my toe giving birth. Of course not. I broke it getting coffee for Mr. Philately as we were preparing to go to the hospital. I did not see the leg of the table. Heck, by that time, I was carrying an almost eight pound baby. I could not see anything over her. I certainly could not see my toes and they don�t have eyes of their own. So the toe hit the table leg and something had to give. The toe gave�and despite the nurse who declared she did babies, not toes, under doctor�s orders, they taped the toe (after they iced it for a long time with Mr. Philately, ever helpful, telling the toe to breath.)

At times like these, I realize that sometimes the littlest things get in the way. Take little toes for example. Just think what happens when something goes wrong with the little piggy that goes wee-wee-wee all the way home. Imagine that it cannot quite wee-wee all the way home because it has had a brutal encounter with a partially opened drawer under your bed. What do you do? Well, you do not wear your normal shoes because they will not go on your feet. So, you hunt for your sandals.

(Perhaps you do not hunt for your sandals. Perhaps you am more organized than I am. Perhaps your sandals are in the closet. Perhaps I hate you. More likely, your sandals do not walk off on the feet of your thirteen year old and you do not have to roll under her bed to retrieve them. But I was desperate and daring. I went under her bed. I found the sandals. I avoided a fate worse than death. All in all, it was a successful hunt but I�d prefer not to do it just for sport.)

So here I am wearing brown sandals and black socks. I am a limping fashion disaster and I am not sure what I will do it if rains (other than get wet.) Worse, I am entertaining fantasies of calling up the person in charge of the conference I am scheduled to speak at next week. �Hello, D,� I will say. �I cannot possibly speak unless I recover enough to wear reasonable shoes. My mouth cannot work when my mind hears the audience saying I am fashion-challenged.� The lawyer who trained me told me that when facing a big hearing (or a speech), if I figured out what I wanted to wear, the rest would follow. Until now, she has been right.

I do not need heels. I will settle for loafers. But I really, really need a toehold on fashion.



IN CASE YOU MISSED THEM:
I am Afraid
Wanting to Want
Barbie
Mistakes Were Made
Mourning the Store

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