Monday, 4 June 2018

Twenty-Two Pairs of Shoes

I was talking to a friend from work and proudly said that I am a Minimalist. "Except for the clothes, handbags and shoes," I said. To which my friend asked just how many pairs of shoes I owned. I'd never counted. Yet seeing as someone asked, I then just had to count! Twenty-two pairs. However out of all those pairs I did own, there was not one pair of comfy sandals that I could safely wear whilst driving or when my knees hurt too much for heels. Unless you counted the one pair with the soles coming off. I admitted as much to my colleague who said there would soon be twenty-three pairs of shoes in my room then.

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No way! How could I let another pair sneak in when I was trying so hard to put down my number of possessions?! And so I did what I should have done sooner. I grabbed a pair of boots that cause me pain even to look at. Truth be told, these boots caused me no pain at all when I wore them. Last year. Before the summer. Before my make-over too. They were boots that made me feel goofy, unfashionable, with laces that kept coming undone, which made them a hazard. The new me argued that I could pull off those boots with the confidence I have now and they were still perfectly fine unless you counted the broken elastic on the back which was anyway hidden by the laces. Those laces. They came undone all the time. Repeatedly, I would squat to reach the back of my ankle boots in order to tie them up again. The image came to my mind, together with the one where once at work the COO actually pointed out that my laces were undone. Which was around the day I'd gone to work looking almost green as I was very sick. Around the time when some very personal trouble started in my life. That same time when I was so self-conscious of how little those boots did to make me confident, look good, desirable.

Those boots had no room in my new life, to be worn by my new self, a reminder as they were of what I would call darker ages. I didn't want the constant reminder that they belonged to an era when my outfits screamed despair. I'll keep my better-loved, still-worn, broken-zip knee highs instead.

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