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My Grandma and I were cruising through the aisles of a big Long Island supermarket after a day at the beach when I spotted them. Just a stone throw away from the fresh corn-on-the-cob we’d been seeking stood a glorious pyramid of boxes filled with Dr. Scholl’s wooden sandals. No, they were not the red clogs I had longed for since early childhood but, in the eleven years I’d been alive on this planet, I was convinced that, with their strap across the foot and wood bottom, they were the closest thing I would get to my dream. Now, I just had to convince her to buy them for me.

“I think we forgot bread,” I said, gripped by excitement and fear in equal measure.

“What? Are you sure? I thought I saw a ton of it this morning?”

“No, we definitely need some,” I said, taking hold of the cart and turning down an aisle.

Distracted by sales and the coupons she’d gotten on the way in, she followed along. She had never wanted me to have clogs for reasons that included something about walking out of them and/or twisting my ankle. It was as ludicrous as her not wanting me to watch James Bond movies because of all the “sexual overtones” meanwhile it was perfectly fine to watch moves like Friday the 13^th because those films were “not real”.

She grabbed the bread and started back up the aisle. Time was running out.

“Wait, ketchup,” I said.

“No, I’m sure we have ketchup. Come on now.”

“Ok, I’ll grab it.” 

Ignoring her protests, I ran down the aisle and disappeared around the corner. In the next aisle, I stopped to lean against a potato chip rack and catch my breath. My heart was racing; I needed to figure out how I would get her to buy them. Then, like a bolt of lightening, I was struck with the most brilliant idea.

I knelt down and undid the buckle on the ankle strap of my sandals. The right one had been a little loose. I tugged at the metal clasp until it ripped off and placed the piece in my pocket. With no way to close my shoe, I could barely walk. A lady wearing a floppy, yellow sun hat that reminded me of the man in the yellow hat from Curious George gave me a look indicating that she thought I was an oddball. I had not time for looks. I had shoes to get. At the top of the aisle, I found my Grandma. Surprisingly, she was holding a box of Dr. Scholl’s.

 “What happened to you?”

“My sandal broke while I was walking,” I replied, casting my eyes downward. “I can’t walk in these. I think I need new shoes. Maybe those shoes you have there would work?”

My stomach did repeated somersaults.

“I was thinking of getting you a pair of these anyway. Your cousin said they are good for your feet.”

“They’re like clogs,” I blurted out. I wanted to pull the words back the moment they hit the air. I was terrified that I had ruined my chances; I was so close.

“No they’re not. They’re Dr. Scholl’s,” she corrected me. “Maybe I will get a pair too.”

I prayed she would do no such thing; thankfully she could not find her size.

“Ok, let’s go,” she said, throwing them into the cart.

Stunned, I hobbled along behind her. All I had to do was ask the question.

As young children we constantly ask questions. We trust that the invitation we received from the Universe when we were born states that we can ask to see and explore everything. Yet, somewhere along the way we begin to worry that asking makes us seem stupid, vulnerable, needy, and a host of other ridiculous things.   When was the last time you asked for something? Whether it’s a piece of information, something that would work perfectly as part of your creative project, a request for support or an item you’ve been admiring in a store window, ask for it. You may or may not be able to have everything you want but you’ll never know unless you ask.

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