The shoes agree only on one thing - that I tire easily. They sit in a rough semi-circle around the door's entrance, where I step out of them on my way to my room or where they land as I - hopping - yank and fling, again on my way to my room.

Everything else they could say about me, the shoes argue.

The black Old Navy flip flops say I'm middle-of-the-road frugal and practical. Gold buckles winking, the $200 green suede boots say I need to be 3.5" taller and look like a fancy wood elf. But at least I got them on severe sale. Impractical. The boys' size 5 Skechers with mismatched laces say I'm not only tired but lazy and willing to do what it takes to get what I want - and what I want is tennis shoes that aren't pink or silver and baby blue and what I want is to not have to go to another store to find them, geez. These Skechers also say to people, "Yes, make fun of her for having small feet because we're still half a size too big. And she is no fancy lady." The kitten/spool heels say I'm a brand whore, the square heels say no. The lace-up boots say I'm okay with hand-me-downs and the zip-up boots answer that maybe I might not always want to wear hand-me-downs that make people think "hooker". The blue Keens imply that I am a watersporter, but they come out and say that I like to feel the ground under my feet. My red & grey Timberlands admit that, but know I need more support. Three other pairs of fashionable > functional sneakers give the lie to however sporty some of my attire may be.

And there are about ten other pairs that say, "She wanted more, but told herself not to overflow the shoe rack. Which she never puts us on anyway. As we said, she's tired a lot."

They do all agree - I have work tomorrow. I am allowed to be tired. I am allowed an early night. Next weekend will have to compensate.

*Totes over-dramatic. No demons. Just the usual complexity of being human. You understand, I'm sure.