Walking in Someone else’s shoes

I couldn’t find my shoes. 

Actually, that’s not strictly true. I found one. The other, I suspect was taken by Vert, a Fat Pogerty—he’s fond of all things pink, and yellow and occasionally blue.

And because of this, I’m late for Sorcery Studies, so I thought, “Oh crab-biscuits, I’ll wear one of yours.” How different can another person’s shoe be? A pink converse matched with a sparkly, iridescent kitten heel. Perfect. Almost.

It feels so odd walking in your left shoe. It pinches my foot and every so often it stops to tap its toe to an inaudible tune. Your shoe likes to dance, to feel the beat of the song playing through its sole (soul). I can feel my converse clad toes tapping along. It’s infectious. 

The heel lifts me higher than I my usual 5’ 2” and I can now see over the stone wall as I desperately negotiate a toe tapping, disco dancing shoe. From here I can see through the window of the Old Church and as I do I spy Madam Crinklebottom as she holds up her Crystal Spyglass for the class to see. She turns in my direction and her eye spies me; it blinks, magnified 10 times its usual size. 

I retch. I can see the mites clinging to her eyelashes feasting on chunks of eye boogers. Yuck!

I drop onto my converse and back to my reality. And oh fishizzle, I’m still late for Sorcery Studies. Blah!  ********************************************

*MoSapien: a person born outside of Makebolivia

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