I’m something of an icon in certain circles. Small circles, and few of them, and only something rather than the thing, but still, people tend to associate me with shoes. Frankly, it’s all a bunch of hooey. Or not.
The truth is, I have a lot of shoes because, well frankly, I despise them. I know that sounds like it doesn’t make sense, but hear me out.
I despise their voluptuous forms that pinch and blister. I despise their endlessly breathtaking hues that just as endlessly endlessly attract maligning black smudges. I despise their manufactured tilt that perks up my derriere and plants my face on the pavement. I despise the tactile thrill of their butter-soft camel leather that rips free as I step onto an escalator. I despise their strappy straps, their buttons and bows, their silk embroideries, beaded delusions and peeping toes. I loathe the fit, the seams, the pads, the heights, the flats, the price.
And? you ask with lips pulled thin and accusing eyes.
And … most of all, I despise having to wear them.
I’m pretty sure we all have more shoes than we need. I’m also pretty sure we have fewer shoes than we want. And why? Because NONE OF THEM FIT.
And then a few weeks ago, I did a thing. I stuffed each pair of lovelies with tissue paper for safe travels ahead, lined them up in the back of my car, stared at their magnificence one last time, gunned my engine, and drove them damn straight to the thrift shop. Yes I did. The boots, the heels, the flats, the embellished, the RED, the toe peepers and marchers, the gladiators, mules, and platforms, and even the kitten heels.
I know you’re wondering. I know you want a peek. I know you’re waiting patiently, so here it is.
I kept one pair of Converse All-Stars (yellow), one pair of ballet flats (black), and one pair of flip flops (pink with yellow soles) for the beach.
That’s it. And I’m not even missing the rest.