Missing My Coral Shoes – By Marianna Ramondetta

I don't remember when my love affair with accessories began but I do recall a rather low point in my life.

I was a junior at the University of Massachusetts, rooming with Rosalind. Rosalind was practical, no nonsense kind of person, a perfect compliment to me, who tended to be a bit flighty and imaginative. We met in a cafeteria and bonded over soggy french fries and hard hamburgers. We learned that my brother, Jamie, had taken her sister, Cindy, to the Easter Drag, when they were both ten.

Rosalind and I got along just fine until one November night when I returned from play practice. (I had snagged the lead in the university's production and I was sure I was bound for Broadway.) In those days, we left our wastepaper baskets outside our dorm doors at night and some mysterious janitor would empty them while we slept. As I made my way down the long, narrow hall, I happened to notice that every single trash can had a pair of shoes in it. Upon closer inspection, I recognized the shoes as my own - the purple spikes, the yellow flats, the white go go boots. I was horrified.

I burst into my room and found Rosalind, sitting on her bed, with her arms folded.

"What's going on," I asked. "Why did you throw away my shoes?!"

"I called your mother. I told her that I couldn't stand it anymore, that your shoes have taken over our room. I have no closet space, I can barely walk, people can't visit us, they can't open the door, I can't find my typewriter, I can't even find my copy of Crime and Punishment. I am sure it's buried in the toe of one of your clogs (I wore a lot of clogs then, because my legs were toned and tanned.)

"That is so unfair!" I wailed. "You had absolutely no right to do that."

"Your mother said it was fine."

"They're not my mother's shoes," I argued.

"Actually most of them are."

I was not about to concede. I took a plastic bag and went down the hall, retrieving all my shoes. Or almost all my shoes. I was missing my favorite pair - coral slingbacks. (Do you know how hard it is to find a pair of coral shoes - to this day, I have not.) I was heartbroken.

"Where are you going to put all those?" Rosalind demanded, when she saw me return, lugging the trash bag.

"Under the bed."

"There's two dozen handbags under your bed," she reminded me.

I don't remember where I put them but what I do remember is that Rosalind and I only lasted one year. She decided to commute our senior year - she said she wanted more space. I got a new roommate, a quiet, subdued girl by the name of Judy. Judy was born and raised on a farm, she didn't need much space and she thought my shoe habit was charming.

Years later, (after I moved to New York City where I had hopes of becoming an actress - before I realized how my lack of talent was going to seriously hamper me) I got a job working as a consumer consultant for a major cosmetic company. My job consisted of answering mail and phone calls from disgruntled consumers, who were upset that the lipstick in the tube didn't match the swatch or that the lid of their eye shadow container broke off, or the long lasting ruby red nail polish chipped after only one day.

I received a letter from Rosalind. She wasn't writing to me, of course, and she had no way of knowing that it was I, who would be opening her letter. She was complaining that she had purchased a mascara, which was dry and flaky in the tube. She demanded a replacement.

I thought long and hard before I responded. But when I did, I answered her in one simple sentence -

"Not until you find my coral shoes."