The other day I was sitting in the park with some other preschool mums. Enjoying the sunshine, sitting in the grass, taking in the delighted squeals of small children, observing others running amok. It was an almost perfect, almost Spring afternoon.
Which came to an abrupt end when one of the mums pointed to my feet and said: "How big are your..."
I finished her sentence as she trailed off.
If I had a soundtrack, it would have cut off abruptly like an old LP. The birds were frozen mid-flight, the kids on swings were stuck up in the air, gasping. Everyone else in the park - heck everyone in a 10km radius froze.
I said "Yep, you're going to tell me I have big feet."
Yes. The elephant in the room. With big feet. I wasn't going to dance around it. Mid-flight she'd realised the error of her ways, but she'd spoken without thinking, and thus was her downfall. Well sort of. If I was Shakespeare I would have rewritten that afternoon, Othello would have walked into the park at that moment, mistaken her for Desdemona, and you know the rest. Or alternatively the Capulets would have come in chasing Leonardo diCaprio and then Baz Luhrman could have taken over directing my movements. I could have won an Academy Award.
Instead I said - yes, it's hard to find shoes to fit me. And that I had lived with big feet for my whole life. I'm well-versed in trying to find enigmatic larger sizes. And shoe-sharing with my husband. And then I changed the subject. Promptly.
image via Daily Mail