IN Other Words

If the Shoe Fits...

by Becky Slatten

IF YOU’RE A REGULAR HERE, you probably know that my husband and my mother are two of my favorite sources of material. I did borrow heavily from the pandemic for a few months, but it’s so old now it’s not even funny, and I’ve chosen to ignore its existence forevermore. However, I do have to credit “it” for making me so bored that I decided to inspect my shoe collection for those pairs which could better benefit society in someone else’s closet (or, if you ask my husband, the trash can). This endeavor subsequently brought me to the intersection of “I might be a shoe hoarder” and “my husband doesn’t understand women” or the corner of “Venus Avenue” and “Mars Street”—take your pick.

My mother is on to me. Ever since I wrote that article about her garage sale, where I may or may not have publicly outed her as a hoarder, she reads every single issue religiously just to make sure she

isn’t mentioned (hi, mom). As I explained in that particular piece, we now refer to her as a “collector” because she, understandably, doesn’t like being called a hoarder—the word usually conjures images of ratinfested homes packed to the ceiling with all kinds of useless junk, and my mother doesn’t have rats—haha. For the sake of journalistic integrity (and to maintain my position in her will), I must clarify that her home is exceptionally clean and very tidy (except for the newspapers), but she still owns every pair of shoes she ever bought. Mom did once give my sister a cute pair of loafers she never wore anymore, and when Cathy walked around in them for a few minutes, they disintegrated on her feet, clearly dead from neglect. So, as I sat alone in my closet attempting to part with some of my shoes, I had an unpleasant realization: I live in a glass house, and I’m holding a rock; I’m the pot, and mom is the kettle; I have a log in my eye, and she has the splinter—I am a hypocrite. But I’m also my mother’s daughter, and we love shoes.

They’re kinda like old friends, aren’t they ladies? Or, in some cases, bitter but adorable enemies, especially if we paid too much. How many wedding receptions were ruined by those killer strappy sandals that hurt so much they had to come off after two choruses of The Macarena? But we stubbornly wore them anyway, because they were perfect with the dress, and they were so pricey we had to justify them by calling them an “investment.” Now, here they lie in the box, like an archive in a museum, because we all reach that age when we finally know better. But give them away, you say?? Are you crazy? Next to the painful formal section, we find the diehard party department; these comfortable troopers have braved football games, crawfish boils, Jazz Fest, the French Quarter—in the rain, you name it, they’ve seen it all, and it shows—a lot. But we’ve been through so much together, I couldn’t possibly throw them out like a pair of old shoes—oh, wait. No wonder my husband thinks I’m crazy.

Speaking of my husband, he also loves being the topic of my articles (hi, Scott). He’s as manly a man that ever lived, and I can prove this by counting his shoes; he has the exact number required for every occasion while also being adequately prepared for the odd contingency. He has one pair of boots: leather. I have 13: short, tall, taller, brown, black, suede, leather, rain. He just shakes his head and laments that no one needs that many boots, like need has anything to do with girls and footwear. Options and more options are the hallmark of a decent closet on Venus, and functionality and practicality rule on Mars, and that’s the way it’s supposed to be so we never have to fight over real estate in a shared walk-in.

So at the end of the day, yes, I did part with some of my babies. My daughter boxed them up and took them away so I couldn’t change my mind, promising to find them good homes. I pleaded for an open adoption policy, but she refused, fearing I would stalk her friends to negotiate visitation. It hasn’t been easy, but some good has definitely come from this experience; for one, I’m much more smug in my glass house, and I get to lord it over my mom that I gave some shoes away, so that’s fun, and I’ve learned to invest more wisely in the future. In fact, an investment arrived on my front porch this morning! One can never have too many black boots.