The other day, my 13-year-old daughter walked in wearing a new pair of shoes. “What do you think of these, Daddy?” she asked.
Now, before I describe what these shoes looked like, let me state unequivocally that I love my daughter and I would love her not a drop less if she were wearing a pair of mottled black plastic shoes that cost $80 and looked like the skin of an alligator that has been fed only malted milk balls and Sugar Smacks, shoes with three-inch platform heels and a think silver zipper in the front that had all the style and elegance of a Frankenstein facial scar or the fly on a pair of dungarees manufactured by chimps in a New Delhi sweatshop.
I think the last people I saw in shoes like these were the Cowsills. The only thing that could have made these shoes uglier was if the heels were clear plastic with live goldfish I them. I am praying they fall apart before her grandmother arrives in a couple of weeks and asks e who picks out her granddaughter’s clothes, Divine Brown?
. . .