I have too many shoes. I can’t believe I’m admitting it, but it’s not like it’s bad to have too many shoes, right? I mean, it could be worse. I could have too many cookies or drugs in my house. Heck, I could have 14 kids under the age of 8. So it could be worse. (Of course, we won’t be mentioning the yarn in the living room.)
Let me backup a bit. Shortly after we bought the house in 2001 we picked up furniture for the bedroom. One of the items we purchased an armoire to hide the TV, which we threw in one closet and shared the other. It’s not like we had a lot of clothing to hang and the armoire had extra drawers that we needed. So it worked for a f ew years until we, namely I started filling that closet and all the drawers.
You have to remember that way back in 2001 we were nowhere near as advanced as today in affordable technology. I mean, cell phones where basic, video games were played with a controller, and affordable TVs were ginormous. How we lived like that, I’ll never know. So when the heavens opened and out came TVs at a reasonable price, we of course saved up and finally bought a flat 30-some-odd inch TV for the bedroom. The armoire went to my friend Greg’s kids and I had my very own closet to fill and organize, and organize I did.
I’ve watched so many darn organizing shows that I knew exactly what I wanted to do. I ran out and bought 25, 6 gallon boxes for my shoes. I thought 25 would be a bit overboard, but I can return the ones I don’t use, right? Right? Wrong. I don’t have enough boxes. I….how….? *sigh* I have filled every single box, even doubling up on some shoes, and still there are more shoes. I suspect that I did not in fact buy all of them. Instead they have been having nocturnal shoe loving and have produced baby shoes. Pretty, lovely shoes. Maybe they are part of a shoe conspiracy, a rebel force organizing to take over the world and bringing in reinforcements for the battle to come. I don’t know. I just know that I have a lot of shoes and I can’t for the life of me figure out which, if any, to part with. I need the kicky sandals and the 3″ open toe heels. I need the dozens of sneakers and the ballet flats. I just can’t figure out when I turned into a girl!
And writing that last paragraph I feel completely and utterly shallow. They are shoes for crying out loud! People are starving! People are dying! People are being forced to do things they don’t want to do just to make ends meet! And I am drowning in shoes, but refuse to donate any of them because I love each and every one of them. I think I may have a problem. Of course, if the shoes are plotting to take over the world by overpowering the helpless masses, I’m a gonner. At least I’ll have had some fun with them before the plot unfolds.