What Are the Odds?

"Daniel, it's seven o'clock. We need to leave in ten minutes." I yell up the stairs. Daniel is a good boy. Responsible. He has a bit of his sister Chrissy in him. He can go from 0 to 60 in three seconds and get out the door in five. When he wants to.

I finish dressing. Khakis. I just can't bring myself to be a schoolteacher in jeans on casual Friday. Blue sweater. Blue socks. Brown shoes. Should I wear my clogs, casual and comfortable, or my loafers.

I brush my teeth.

"Five minutes." No grunt. "Do you hear me?" I ask. Finally, a grumbled acknowledgment.

My hair looks funny. I fiddle with it. What are the odds? I thought it was impossible to have a bad hair day on Friday.

"I really don't want to be late to work." More grumblings.

I brush my teeth.

"I mean it." Tone a bit aggravated. It is already 7:15. What is the probability I will be on time? The odds are even if we leave in five minutes.

I grab my computer. Throw a sandwich in a bag with a banana and juice. Grab my jacket, get my keys, quickly slide my feet into my shoes. I decide against the total comfort of the clogs.

I will be late.

I start the car. I wait. In a whirlwind, Daniel finally scrambles in.

“I’m going to drop you off at Suvio’s.”

Grumble.

“If I can bypass the high school traffic, I might yet make it to the middle school on time.”

Grumbled acceptance and slammed door.

I make it to the middle school parking lot with one minute to spare. Grab my computer and my purse. Begin a hurried walk to the door. But something’s not right. My gait is off. There is a looseness on my left side.

I look down at my shoes. Two different shoes. Not a right and a left shoe, but a right and a left shoe from two different pairs of shoes. The left is suede and has a tassel. My loose, go-to comfy loafer. The right is smooth leather and a slightly darker brown than the suede. It is plain, no tassel, and the opening rides up much higher on my foot. My tight, supportive shoe. There is no loaf in this shoe.

No time to run home. Maybe no one will notice, I think.  I hope.

And as I rush through the door to sign in, I remember my mother. She must have been about my age. One morning she too was running late. She overslept. She dressed quickly to get out the door in order to meet her carpool. Only in the car as she relaxed did she realized she had forgotten to don a bra. And this in an era when only defiant love children went without.

She suffered the entire day. Uncomfortable in a day of meetings in a world surrounded by women she felt were far more sophisticated and well-dressed than she. (Alas, she loved her fellow sisters of the General Board of the Relief Society, but she always felt she never quite measured up.) But she survived. She made it home without anyone ever being the wiser. That is, until she told me and I summarily told everyone I knew about it.

“I am Mrs. Stornetta. I will be your substitute teacher today.” And I wonder. What is the probability that at least one of my forty-nine students that morning will notice? I am a little uncomfortable. Seventh-graders can scrutinize. Why am I threatened by the seventh-grade fashion police? Were I a betting woman, I would bet against myself.

As students begin to consider how many combinations of sneakers and loafers and red and black and plaid caps Johnny could wear, I think of a new problem. Mrs. Stornetta oversleeps. Her three pairs of brown shoes are lined up in a row. What is the probability that she will choose a pair that matches?

Yet no one notices. Except the office secretary to whom I confess my fashion faux pas. I hope she is a bit more tight-lipped than I was about my mother's confession. I quickly leave the school as soon as the bell rings. Like Cinderella I want to make it home before my good fortune wears off. And as I kick off my mismatched pair and slide into a comfy chair, I think of my mother again. I am my mother.

What are the odds?