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When I feel down, I like to treat myself. Clothes never look any good, and food just makes me fatter, but shoes always fit."
~ In Her Shoes
Two feet, forty seven pairs of shoes and one overflowing closet. Imelda Marcos has nothing on me. Pink shoes with flowers and rainbow shoes from overseas. Brown shoes with bows and holey yellow shoes. Red shoes below the desk and silver sandals for the summer, the feel of grass between your toes. Beige shoes and blue shoes and black shoes with buckles. Shoes for today, shoes for tomorrow, shoes for night and day. Fancy shoes and simple shoes. Shoes for dancing and for running and for living. Shoes for simply being.
I need shoes simply to exist, and yet, my father has threatened to cut me off if I buy another pair of shoes. My closet barely closes and I haven't eaten because I am utterly broke. "Dear pee and em," I phone home and say, "I desperately need money, can you help me out?" And my dear, sweet mother calmly says, "Imagine how good those shoes would taste if they were macaroni." But mom, you do not understand. Those shoes are pink. They are patent leather. They have a wedge and they have pointy toes! Gorgeous, really. You do not understand. The only problem is, I'm running out of space and there is no room in my closet. (And did I mention that I ate the last can of soup three days ago?) These shoes are like the Virgin Mary - perhaps I shall have to banish them to the stable for the night.
Sitting here with my stomach growling, I am forced to grudgingly admit that it is possible that my shoe addiction, as it has been called, has become a slight problem. As my father, in his infinite wisdom likes to point out, I've only got two feet and I can only wear one pair at a time. You do not understand. I see a pair of shoes, and I can not help but stop and try them on. And it's not like I can wear my gym shoes to work, and some shoes are summer shoes which can't be worn when there's snow on the ground. And just in case my shoes are wet, I should like a back up pair. And before you know it, the till is ringing and I own another pair of shoes. They are lovely shoes to be certain. And this how I came to posses the pair of shoes that presents our current dilemma - I have no soup and no space for shoes.
I need to downsize and I need to stop buying shoes, and yet I can not bring myself to stop. Why? they ask, and I have no reply. Why? Why, shoes? They probe with each new pair. I am tempted to stop buying shoes to end their questioning. I know the answer. They might. But whether they do or do not know, we have not spoken of the problem. You don't understand. Instead, I buy more shoes - red flats with black straps, and blue shoes with spots. For them, this is the problem. Why? Why shoes? What are you trying to accomplish? And they are greeted with silence. They are greeted with denial - the first step, which seems ironic, I will admit. You do not understand. I am so ashamed. I am like the feet of the body - stinky and sweaty and calloused and covered in corns, but hidden in a pair of flashy new shoes. No one would suspect. No one would suspect. The silence is as much for them as it is for me - I will not deny it - in a moment of weakness, I once admitted the truth to my mind (and then cried for hours) and since then I have made a conscious effort to avoid the problem.
Have you ever tried to walk a mile in someone else's shoes? I have - the shoes were too small, I was drunk and far from home and I could not afford a taxi but I made it home in the end. I would wear another person's shoes if I knew that they could afford to eat today and I would not feel guilty. But walk a stand in my shoes and find your way home - I do not know where you'll end up. The shame is overwhelming. No shoes can mask the truth completely. All the make up in the world could not mask the truth - nor clothes, nor beauty, nor perfume and especially not a pair of shoes. The problem is that, once a vice, my shoes are have become a paradox - something less tangible and more important all at once. Brown shoes for crossing the stage on graduation day. Trainers that were soaked and squishy on the hottest day of summer. Sensible shoes for the first snowfall, since I will surely slip. Argyle shoes the night my father tried to kill himself (I've binned those, though I admit I was rather fond of them.) And shoes sporting the Union Jack the first time I took my car for a spin - the motor died in the middle of the highway, and we walked to the nearest gas station in the snow and freezing cold. Send help.
"I think you are a lesbian." (Silver shoes with lots of straps.) "No, I don't know why you would think that."
Shoes have become a disposable part of my being - if I like the memories attached to a pair of shoes, I will keep wearing them. But if I wear a pair of shoes for something I'd rather not remember, I simply toss them and buy a new pair. (If only life were that simple.) Perhaps this explains why I'm having such problem - all the shoes that are left are somehow a part of me -and they are a part that I rather like. I do not want to throw away happy memories, and if they were not happy, I'd have purged them long ago. But the pink shoes sit in their box, pristine and waiting to find a home, waiting to find a memory of their own. Will I wear them dancing? When I fail a test? For my first kiss? Will I put them on the morning I admit there is a problem - and perhaps more importantly, will I decide to simply trash them later in the day?
Or shall I wear them in the rain and ruin them, and experience a momentary joy, simply so that I can toss them away and close the closet door? Only time will tell - I do not know the answer.
-GG01
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