Part 1: The Day We Met
As I turned the corner, there they were: Cute, sexy, black, 4″ high, and adorned with beautiful sapphire stones, rhinestones, zippers, and lace.
My heart started beating rapidly as I seductively whispered to myself — “Hello, my darlings, it’s a pleasure to meet you!” Everything around me stopped, and at that moment, it was just the three of us, two shoes and me, and I knew I had to have them.
As I tried to rationalize why I needed to have them, everything in my body cried for these shoes —
“What woman wouldn’t want these shoes”? I muttered.
Then I thought —
“They are guaranteed to be the envy of every woman in town, and they will adorn my outfits and make my feet look gorgeous — as if my toes could be more beautiful.”
And I thought further —
“Selecting an outfit would be a breeze because there are so many options that would work great with these shoes … not to mention, they’d be a conversation starter at every event I attend.”
After that thought process, I couldn’t think of any reason not to own these shoes, other than I promised my husband that I wouldn’t purchase another pair until I wore the last nine that I bought four weeks ago.
And a promise is a promise.
Every wife knows when you promise the hubby, it’s severe – and you need to keep it, mainly if it affects family finances and forces dishonesty.
Damn the trepidation!
It’s bad enough that he already complains I have an unspeakable number of shoes and spend way too much on them. And it doesn’t help that the last time we counted, I had 447 pairs, and since then have purchased another 90-100 pairs.
No, literally.
Need I mention that he has already built an entire room dedicated to “my effing shoes” — as he refers to them — and later had to add more shelving in the bedroom to accommodate the flood of shoes consuming our living space.
But to me, this was normal.
As I ignored the reality that I owned far too many pairs of shoes, I pondered the question: why wouldn’t he build a separate room and add shelving for the overflow of my shoes? After all, he is my husband, right? And he does want me to be happy, yes?
At least that was my thinking at o-dark-thirty, as I lay awake staring into the darkness.
My family members and friends agreed with my husband that I was addicted to shoes. Some believed I was addicted to ownership; others thought I was addicted to possession; some argued that I’d never wear all those shoes before I died.
Still, others believed I suffered from some unresolved childhood issues.
Though, the one thing they all agreed on was that I desperately needed help and that I should seek out a therapist to help me figure out why I feel the need to own so many pairs of shoes.
Seriously? I thought.
What was I to do? Visit the “couch” and listen to some lady with a bun in her hair analyze me while peering judgementally over her glasses and telling me that owning so many pairs of shoes is problematic and will destroy me someday?
Aah, no thanks! Hard pass.
Just being there on her couch would be a gross admission of guilt, and I don’t believe in any way that I am guilty or that I am an addict. So, to suggest I visit a therapist is a moot point. And the notion that I need anybody’s help regarding my shoes is ludicrous, totally insane, and the way I see it, never going to happen.
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