August 9, 2007
They say the first step to curing a problem is admitting you have one, right? If that’s the case — I admit I am a shoeaholic in desperate need of a 12-step program (what shoes would I wear) to kick this nasty habit.
Never trying to deny the fact that I had succumb to this enslavement, its ill after-effects recently became all too apparent during my recent move. Two things I should note: 1. I own about 70 pairs in every shape, color, heel height, season, shades, toe, et cetera. That would equal about 2.91 pairs a year during my lifespan, however I am pretty sure the addiction severely advanced itself during college. 2. Of the 70 pairs, about 65 percent are still in their boxes for protection (which makes for a difficult move, always).
That said — I got smart after my freshman year. And after hearing my father curse as he stuck shoebox after shoebox into every nook and cranny of my car prior to me departing for college. So today I hoard shopping bags. That’s right, large ones — that will accommodate many boxes, making for a seamless transition.
As my mother was recently packing the boxes (better resembling a shoe clerk who just made a big sale) she probably cursed a little too. But she couldn’t blame me — she too has kept pair, upon pair of shoes in their boxes (it’s clearly an obsessive-compulsive-disorder-organization kind of a thing). Not to mention the stories she’s given me about driving across Pennsylvania when she was 13 to buy a pair of patent leather Mary Janes. Who took her? Her father. Or what about the Pappagallo shoes she bought compulsively in college? This addiction ran deeper than loafers or kitten heels, it was hereditary.
So with the move complete, the first thing that screamed to be organized and essential for every item to follow, were my shoes. In my nice new walk-in closet, I dedicated an entire shelf to the shoes. I stacked them high, just like I have the past four years. Boxes staring down at me, with scribbles reading, Van Eli Mules, Charles Flowers, dress pumps with rhinestones; they were happily stored for another year. (And yes, all vying at the chance to be worn.)
Proud of myself, and stomping on my addiction, I was able to find a few pairs (four if you must know) worthy of another home. So I strolled downtown to a secondhand shop, sure they’d be elated over the various, trendy pairs I’d brought them. That is until they denied them ALL. (Secondhand snobs. It was as if they’d never heard “one man’s trash is another man’s treasure.”) So I took them to a worthier locale — the Salvation Army. Some lucky doll will love the Minnetonka moccasins, BCBG ankle strap stilettos or Adidas court shoes. Either way, my closet (nor my dependency) needed them any longer.
It may be trite for one to be so drawn to shoes (or write about them in a blog), but in retrospect, so was prancing around my mother’s closet in her heels when I was five. Heed my advice, friends don’t let friends shop for shoes (or at least save the shopping bag if you do).
Comments
Margo (anonymous) says...
My mother was a shoe horse. I, unfortunately, inherited the trait which I have tried desperately not to pass on to my daughter. She is in an entry-level job and cannot afford it. Sex and the City didn't help matters either.
August 10, 2007 at 4:39 p.m. ( permalink | suggest removal )
Post a comment
Commenting requires registration.