Today, for the first time in my life, I wore two entirely different shoes. Had I not happened to look down at my feet while talking about how comfortable Birkenstocks were, I may never have noticed.
While they were the same color and even from the same shoe family, they were pretty obviously not a pair. One was an Arizona, one was a Boston.
I pretty much hid at my desk all day, answering inter-office calls by the few people who knew about my dysfunction and wanted me to come to their offices so they could laugh at me when I said no.
The husband tried to make me feel better by telling me that he'd once worn fuzzy slippers on an outing around Colwyn Bay. But he was nine years old; it just isn't the same thing.