When people take pictures of your shoes, it’s time to write about them.
Especially when Photo Time occurs at the courthouse.
We three women sat next to each other, awaiting the outcome of round one: would we be picked for jury duty? Bailiff updates droned on through rounds two and three. We began to chat.
After a few minutes, the woman sitting two places to my left eyeballed the shoes I’d worn on this road trip:
Both women erupted in surprise when I mentioned the paint job was mine. A cacophony of non‐stop questions and amazement followed. While secretly delighted, I finally said, “they’re only shoes.”
The first woman asked to take a picture. For her daughter, she said. The other, sitting next to me, noticed the faux gemstones.
The picture‐taker leaned in and whispered, “so, how do you DIY shoes?”
Why are you whispering? I wondered. Are these creations too weird? Am I?
“Easy‐breezy: shoe paint, leather shoes, and your fingers. Only four: index, middle, and ring fingers plus a thumb. All you do is flick and fling!”
I giggled at the ad‐lib, morphing it into Flick ‘n Fling Fun. then added, “Best part? No one in the universe will ever own shoes like yours. Who wants to be like everyone else?”
My two new friends nodded in agreement. Our shared middle‐to‐senior ages encouraged that collective attitude. We talked more nitty‐gritty details of painting shoes. Finally, we exchanged our names.
Jury duty with a namesake.
Who also wished her mother had named her Scarlett.
Who parked two places away in the parking lot; who sat two spaces away in the courthouse.
Four synchronicities for the price of one.
Who says jury duty is a chore?
And, no, none of us was picked.