I surveyed the closet shelves looking for a space -- any space -- where I could store my scuba gear. There was precious little. Shelf upon shelf, row upon row, all was taken up by shoes. I counted them. Four pair were mine: slippers, sandals, athletic shoes and dress pumps. The rest of the approximately two hundred pair of shoes (I may be exaggerating a wee bit) belonged to The Spousal Unit.
This morning as he dressed for church, he commented on his brown dress shoes. "They're getting floppy in the soles. I need new ..."
"Don't say it!"
"... shoes."
I walked him into the closet. "What's wrong with any of these other shoes?"
"I need different shoes for different activities."
I pointed to the black dress shoes. "Those are black." he said, helpfully.
"Black shoes don't go with anything?"
"Brown pants call for brown shoes." He looked at me as though I were stupid.
I looked at the tan pants I was wearing, and the black sandals I was wearing and rolled my eyes.
Thirty of the pairs are athletic shoes. Rock climbing shoes. Hiking shoes. Mountain climbing shoes. Shoes with arch support. Shoes without. Older shoes he wears when doing messy work. Walking around the house shoes. Walking on the street shoes. Standing around in the workshop shoes. Getting cans of soda from the pantry and putting them in the refrigerator shoes.
Twenty pairs are varying types of sandals. Easy to put on sandals. More difficult to put on sandals that don't come off your feet when you're tubing down the river. Old sandals for when he's washing down the sidewalks. Pebbly sandals that feel good on your feet.
Four pairs are leather "docksiders." We have no docks. We have no boat.
Two pair are moccasins -- one of them made from elk hide. He doesn't wear those. He's afraid of ruining them. They were expensive.
One pair of black dress shoes. One pair of floppy-soled brown dress shoes.
He tells me he's going shoe shopping after church today.
I'm thinking "garage sale."
