I kick of my sandals and let my pudgy feet saquish in the mud.
I let the dirt seep in under my toenails, fully aware mother will have a fit.
I couln't care less. I HAD to play in the mud.
I don't pay any attention to the disapproving looks of the adults, whispering as they saunter away from church.
I tug my laces tight.
They are perfect. They match my personality.
My first big girl shoes.
I run. And i keep running, not planning on stopping for anything.
But then I stumble. My shoes don't seem to fit anymore.
Purple or blue. Laces or slip ons.
I don't think Sally has those shoes. Bobby doesn't date girls that like blue.
So this time I pick purple. With laces.
There is no time to kick off my shoes and let my toes squish in the mud.
Sally isn't friends with people like that. Bobby doesn't date girls like that.
This desire to find the perfect shoes encompasses me.
I get new shoes every year to fit my feet.
But suddenly, my shoes don't seem to fit MY feet.
I am always looking down at my feet so I would know.
I am too scared to look up, scared to see me: the girl who wants to just kick off her shoes and play in the mud but knows she can't.