A writer's blog, by Quenby Olson.
My husband and I went out yard-saling, which we do when there’s nothing better to occupy our Saturday mornings, or if we’ve gone and overdosed on too much Antiques Roadshow and been fooled into thinking that at any moment, we’ll stumble across a Lalique vase, or some Native American artifact rescued from the Gettysburg battlefield by Honus Wagner and the fifth Beatle.
Our first stop was in a woman’s garage, where there were two tables. One was covered with the usual yard sale nonsense, and the other was covered entirely with shoes. Large shoes. Large, sensible shoes. I had never seen so many large shoes in one location. If my husband had ever harbored a secret desire to be a cross-dresser, now was his time to step up and claim his prize.
While we were still gawking at the dozens of pairs of shoes, a raspy voice piped up from the rear of the garage.
Woman: What size shoes do you wear?
Me: Er… Seven and a half, maybe an eight.
Woman: Oh. Do you know anyone who wears a fourteen?
Me: Ooh, not off the top of my head. Sorry.
Woman: Do you see those blue ones? I had those specially dyed to match a dress. I won’t take less than twenty dollars, since I had to pay to have them dyed.
Me: I… okay.
Woman: You know, you could stuff some tissue in the ends and they would fit you just fine.
Me: Um, I don’t think so.
It’s probably a sad example of my own personality that if I had a Time Turner, instead of using it to change some major world event and alter history, I’d really just use it to catch up on my reading, writing, and episodes of Hannibal.