Years ago I visited a psychic. She seated me in her reading room and then went to the kitchen to get us both tea. When she returned, she told me that my children had come to her while she was brewing away in there.
She had a vision of a girl and a boy. The girl was older. She said the little girl was a character who had on little red shoes. She was very proud of them and making quite an effort to show them off. This tickled my psychic.
I was in my thirties at the time. I felt restless and insecure. I hated my job, still wanted to be valued for my physical appearance, and I thought maybe I couldn’t fully claim my life for myself until I had a man.
The stars already knew my fate. Supposedly I was destined to marry between thirty five and thirty seven. I would wed a guy taller than me and older than me. We laughed a lot together and lived by water. He had some grey in his hair and adored me. We stayed together the rest of our lives. We had a daughter by the time I was thirty nine. Our son was to follow a couple of years after that.
Then, once the kids were in school, I would get involved in the PTA and cake decorating.
I am forty now. None of that happened, and I am pleased as punch. Truly.
I did some traveling around the neighborhood in these, the soles are rigid and scuffed. I also did some peeing. It’s a rather humbling story about what can happen to a little girl when wearing overalls and waiting too long to head to the loo and tackle those shoulder clasps.
It’s been years since I have thought about these shoes. Discovering them again recently, I looked with fresh eyes. I remembered my visit to that psychic. And I came to two conclusions:
1. I am my own little red-shoe-clad girl. I like that.
2. Life is short; don’t waste time on the clasps. Shrug off those shoulder straps and get on with it!