It was the best of shoes; it was the worst of shoes. It was best and worst at the same time depending on the foot and on whether you like navy blue or black. It certainly was the worst of days to pick for the event and the worst of places. The dress looked sharp and professional. It was a good hair day. The makeup application was reasonably well done and I thought I was ready for battle. I was wrong.

Sometimes getting the week going is difficult. Knowing that the day would start with running around the courthouse to get some papers signed did not cause me to break out yelling, �We are most enthusiastic. H-A-P-P-Y!� but then little does other than leading an occasional girl scout meeting. But it wasn�t what others did that threw me off my stride. It was what I did. I wore one black shoe and one navy blue shoe to court.

There�s nothing like striding into a courtroom seeking to get an order signed and looking down and realizing that your shoes are mismatched. Never mind that the style of both shoes was exactly the same. Never mind that I would never have felt the problem because they feel exactly the same on my feet. Never mind that I couldn�t blame it on getting dressed in the dark because Mr. Philately was up and out of bed when I put on shoes this morning.

The last time this problem occurred I swore it would never happen again. I should have sworn that I would try to avoid it. I could have kept that vow. But I thought I checked. I thought I looked and I did look. I just didn�t see. And there I was in front of a judge with carefully manicured nails. I couldn�t see her shoes but, although I do not gamble, I would bet they matched. Luckily, she didn�t notice. If it had been any other judge, I would assume that the judge just didn�t say anything but I can�t imagine that this judge would pass up the opportunity. No, she was too busy flirting with the male attorneys to notice. Me, and my shoes, were unimportant. Because she signed the order, I didn�t care about the slight. I was just happy to walk me and my assorted shoes out of there with what I needed in a reasonable amount of time.

My father once wore a tan shoe and a brown shoe to work when he was dressed in a suit. He didn�t cringe. He just stuck his feet under the desk. If anyone noticed, he assured them that he had a pair almost like them at home (except backwards, I suppose.) But he was a guy. No one expected him to match�certainly not anyone who knew him.

Perhaps I should get shoeboxes and sort those #@!@# shoes by color so I can�t make a mistake. Perhaps I should just stop caring. Perhaps I should simply get Day-Hay to come back home and check my outfits before I walk out the door. Using daughters to keep one on track usually worked for my father but in those days I could tell shoes apart.

On the other hand, I did get that order signed with far less flak than I was expecting. Perhaps she did notice and she didn�t fuss about the order from pity. Perhaps in an era of pierced navels and eyelids and other such, mismatched shoes are considered a fashion statement. No, I�m just going to have to be more careful. I�m just going to have to take more time.

And it will be a far, far better outfit I will wear.

LAST YEAR: Time Off

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Copyright 2006 by Ellen