"Here at the Fluvanna Correctional Center for Women we have outside exercise that we call 'walking rec.' For walking rec, each unit has an assigned time to cruise the courtyard, a large rectangle in the center of the prison. Five times around makes one mile. I usually power walk on weekends for an hour as it is the only form of exercise I enjoy and can commit to. I listen to my Walkman, fall into stride and disappear into the freedom of my own mind.

One breezy Saturday morning, a young friend asked if she could join me and, since I am known for walking at a run, she expressed concern that she might hold me back. I assured her that I would enjoy a change of pace and encouraged her company. However, after 10 minutes of what I considered an 'old lady' hobble, she began to limp and slowed further. In another 10 minutes, she informed me that she had to go in because her feet hurt.

As I am prone to do, I snapped off some biting words about her age and getting herself in some kind of order, and then she shyly admitted that it wasn't the walking which had crippled her but the shoes. I stopped, took a deep breath, peered at her feet and asked what in blazes was wrong with them.

A whistle trilled through the air and an officer shouted at us to keep moving. We immediately started shuffling along again.

I put my hand on her sleeve and looked at her hard. 'What is wrong with your shoes?' I demanded.

'Well,' she said with a giggled sigh, her eyes skittering around. 'They're a size five.'

She shrugged-off my hand. 'And I'm a size seven-and-a-half.'

'Why in Sam's tarnation would you wear shoes that are too small?' I shouted.

'I like the way they look on my feet!' she rebutted.

'You're completely insane!' I sneered. 'Why are you trying to walk? Why don't you just sit around with your feet propped up for us to admire?' I jammed my face in hers. 'Oh, my,' I preened in a falsetto voice, 'what small beautiful feet you have.' I turned away from her red-stained face. 'O po-leeze!' The young woman stomped (delicately) back to the building.

I raced around the courtyard muttering and mumbling, pontificating and exhorting the mesmerized audience in my mind on the 'insane foolishness of that child,' when a quiet thought brought me up short. What blisters do we all carry? What rubbed raw places do we all live with? What shapes do we contort ourselves into for the sake of appearances or expectations? How many times in my own life have I limped along wearing shoes that didn't fit? It had never occurred to me that more people might be laughing over my limp than impressed by my cool shoes. How long is it taking me to learn the joy of striding freely in my shoes, plain though they may be? In shoes that fit, I go a lot further, I go a lot faster, and I enjoy the walk.

I want to apologize to my friend for being a self-righteous jerk and thank her for giving me an excellent workout." (Elizabeth Haysom, Fluvanna Review, April 10, 2003).

Elizabeth Haysom is presently incarcerated at the Fluvanna Correctional Center for Women in Troy, Virginia. She is serving a 90 year sentence as an accessory to the murder of her parents in 1987. This column is part of a series, under the general heading 'Glimpses from Inside.'