How many pairs of shoes do you have? Five? Fifty? Five hundred? Five thousand? I have no idea how many pairs of shoes I have—but I’d say five thousand is pretty close. Last year I wanted to have a walk-in closet built so that I could store all my shoes nicely and neatly and spend long, romantic evenings in their company. But I didn’t dare to. Why? I’m afraid of actually knowing how many pairs of shoes I have.
I believe shoes are the best litmus test that tells you what a woman is like. When I meet someone new, I don’t look her in the eyes—I look at her shoes. Thanks to years of experience, I’ve become the ultimate shoe psychologist. Looking at your shoes, I can say what kind of men you like, what you love to eat, how you slept last night, and whether you cohabit with Antonio Bandera’s look-alike or with a large, fat orange cat.
I’m a shoe connoisseur and collector. I own Manolos, Louboutins, Jimmy Choos, and all kinds of flea market specimens. I should actually call myself a shoe traveler, not a world traveler. I have shoes from Hong Kong, London, Casablanca, Prague, Paris, New York, Nice, and about a hundred other cities, including that sleepy little nameless village in southern Spain where a toothless old fellow sold me the best sandals of my life for three euros.
I have shoes for happy days, exciting days, hysterical days, writing days, me-days, and insane days. I have shoes of all colors, shapes, and sizes. (Yes, that’s right—sizes. You should see those red stilettos. Okay, I admit they’re two sizes smaller than my feet, but if you spend the night on a bar stool without drinking too much so that you don’t have to walk to the bathroom every ten minutes, they’re absolutely perfect. Gorgeous. Irresistible. Lovable. My feet hate me each time I wear them, but I don’t give a damn.)
I know exactly what shoes I have and where I bought them, I know the history of every single pair. I love them. However, counting them is something I cannot do. No, really. I can’t. It’s impossible. Too hard to do. Scary. Hitchcock-like. What if, after counting my shoes, I realize my passion and hobby has turned into a pathological obsession? What if I discover that I could easily have bought my house without a mortgage, hadn’t I engaged in shoe shopping sprees? What if my shoes stop loving me after I count them? What if I stop loving them?
No, I’m not ready. I don’t want to be. I might never be. Yes, I do have a spring resolution to count my shoes. But who says I have to do it this spring? There are many springs left. And too many pairs of shoes to buy.
