By Pat LaPointe

I’ve never felt more excited about going out. Nineteen months inside.

“OOH, my black stilettos. I can hardly wait to wear them again.”

Shoe: “I shouldn’t care. If you want to break your neck, it’s your choice”.

Me: “Well, you don’t need to be rude.” Why am I talking to a shoe?

Shoe: “Not rude. Realistic. You chose those “stilts” over my comfy, memory foam, rubber-heeled, particularly chic and beautiful tan flats once before. Really. Think about the last time you made that choice.”

Me: “You are always bringing that up.”

Shoe: “Duh. Remember? Memory foam?”

Me: “I thought that was just to help me walk more comfortably.”

Shoe: “You can be so clueless sometimes. Are you forgetting the snapping sound your right ankle made when you fell? The painful ride to the emergency room? The nasty-smelling cast that was put had to wear? Or how your leg began to itch so bad you were using a hanger to get under it and scratch? How about how you had to go up and down the stairs on your butt?”

Me: “Must you remind me of every detail?”

Shoe: “Memory foam.”

Me: “Yea, right.”

Shoe: “So, put those shoes on.”

I put them on.

Shoe: “Now, walk across the room.”

Me: “I don’t know what’s your point, but I’ll do it anyway.”

I wobble across the room, trip on a rug, and hear my left ankle snap

Shoe: “Told you so. Remember to bring only my right one when you leave for the emergency room.”

“Wake up, Pat. We are going to be late.” Shouts my husband. How long have you been asleep in the closet?”