In lieu of a real post, I present to you the first two chapters of my dissertation in picture form:

Put some new shoes on, and suddenly everything is right

Long, long ago, when I was young and naïve, and thought that I would Never Change, I was enlisted in helping with a move. Our family is well-known for sticking the word ‘party’ on to the ends of words that are not at all pleasant, in a misguided attempt to mask the true nature of the task. So, at this Moving Party, I got stuck carting, what seemed at the time, the world’s supply of shoes, helpfully sorted into laundry baskets by my ever-thoughtful Aunt Jan. Poor ten year old me. I could not imagine a time when anyone would need so many shoes. Why on earth would you need more than three pairs? Tennis shoes, sandals, and a nice pair for special occasions. Simple. Maybe a pair of slippers if you were feeling especially indulgent.

Oh poor ten year old me.

I complained rather loudly at having to move so many shoes, and I’m sure no one appreciated it. And I made a bet with dear old Aunt Jan. One that I thought I would never go back on, probably because I was ten and thought I would Never Change my opinion on anything. (For the record, mushrooms are still gross.)

I bet my Aunt Jan that I would never own more than five pairs of shoes. I must have given myself a little bit of wiggle room—probably for a pair of creekin’ shoes, or something equally important but not really in the true definition of Real Shoes.

Now Aunt Jan has moved once more, and I wasn’t there to cart around her shoes again. I’m sure she would have taken no small amount of pleasure in making me move her no doubt massive-at-this-point shoe collection. I’m not sure there are enough laundry baskets in our collective family to hold her shoe collection now. Thank god I’m across an ocean. This pasty, scholarly body probably couldn’t handle the strain.

But I also have a confession to make.

When I came to York, I brought not three, not five, but eight pairs of shoes.

And yesterday, I bought another pair. And I left several pairs at home, ranging from a pair of converse that are more holes than shoes, and some really nice heels.

So Aunt Jan, I am way past our original bet of five pairs of shoes. So if you remember the terms of our original agreement (I certainly don’t—I just remember that you made me cry!), I will do my duty and pay up. And if you don’t, well then maybe we should just get together sometime and revel in our expanding shoe collections.