Call it a fetish. Or an addiction. I don’t mind. My family and close friends have already tried the whole intervention thing. It’s futile. I have over two hundred pairs of shoes, so I guess I’m over with arguing about an addiction that’s obvious.
So what if I have lots of shoes? So what if I’m drooling over a pair of black patent leather peep toe Louboutins which I so don’t need (but desperately want), to add to my growing collection of footwear?
Should I indulge? Yes, and I hope it will be this year. When I get my writing career moving (forward that is), the shiny black shoes with the racy red heel and the leather to die for, will be mine.
Am I unreasonable? I mean, really, does someone need so many shoes?
For me, shoes do come a close third in life’s greatest joys, after my family and my writing. They make me feel content and confident and yes, maybe I do see them as a motivational tool. A treat. A reward for work well done.
I believe that the small pleasures in life are the ones that make us truly happy. Things like my son bringing me a flower he cut from the garden (normally a wilting dandelion), or my hubby surprising me by picking up my favourite magazine from the shop (normally the wrong one).
But once in a while, I will indulge in more complex pleasures. The ones that involve buying myself a pair of completely unreasonable shoes that I will probably wear once (under specific weather and terrain conditions) and then put back in their box, only to come out when I want to sniff them or stroke them or whisper sweet nothings into their soles.