I have no respect for them. I abuse them, step on them, kick them across the room, drag them through shit and dirt and mud and water, tear them off still laced, and at the end, throw them away without even a thank you or proper burial.
Sometimes I even abandon them at the store, like lost children.
Women do a much better job of appreciating their shoes.
My soon to be daughter-in-law Cassandra is one of these. While I am content with two pair of shoes, one black pair for work (because black goes with everything) and my old brown pair for the rest of the time (I once owned a pair of tennis shoes, but wore them twice and then lost them), she sees nothing wrong with forty or fifty pair of shoes.
FIFTY! Look at her closet. She’s the Arizona version of Imelda Marcos, but without the palace.
Aside from the ones she leaves by the front door for me to trip over, however, she does a good job of managing all those shoes. They are neatly housed; she even has this special shoe storage condominium, with little barcoded ID tags and a FIFO management system (FIFO means “First-In, First-Out for all you non-technical people).
It’s all too complicated for me. High heels, pumps, slip-ons, loafers, tennis shoes, deck shoes, moccasins, brogues, flip-flops, sling backs, stiletto heels, platforms, wingtips, and hiking boots. AAAAAHHH!
The only joy I have in shoes is taking them off. Keep your shoes in the closet, Cassie. I’d rather go barefoot.