On Simplicity: I was Going Through My Closet . . .

If I really prefer to go barefoot, why do I own FORTY pairs of shoes? One may avoid that question by meditating upon more than 2,700 pairs of shoes that Imelda Marcos left behind when she and her dictator husband fled the Philippines in 1986. Some claim that her shoe collection once numbered 5,400! She later corrected this gross exaggeration. “I did not have 3,000 pairs of shoes,” she clarified, “I had 1,060” (If she changed her shoes three times a day, it would take her almost an entire year--353 days--to wear them all)! Thank you for clearing that up for the millions of poverty-stricken Philippinos you and Ferdinand left behind. So . . . when I was cleaning downstairs yesterday, I found six pairs of my shoes between the front door and my closet—probably because I have always preferred to go barefoot. One of my earliest childhood memories is the scrumptious feeling of the cold hardwood floor on my hot, bare feet when I entered Mr. Pinno’s store in Marlin, Texas. He didn't have a sign that read, "No shirt, no shoes, no service." Even when my mother argued that I would catch my death, cut my foot open (I did), get third degree burns or ruin my arches, my always-painted circus toes had to be free to wiggle and breathe. Never mind that I smashed my big toe in the car door when we took a car trip to Estes Park, Colorado. “Honey” (my grandmother) wouldn’t quit singing, “To Bear Lake, to Bear Lake to see all the snow; Home again, home again with a busted toe!” “BURST”, my English-teacher mother corrected, horrified.

Refocusing on my initial question, let me clarify why I need my forty pairs of shoes. First of all, some aren’t really SHOES . . . there is a pair of slippers under my bed that my mother gave me before I had surgery three years ago (so I wouldn’t catch my death or get pinworms in the hospital). I have eight pairs of boots that I’ve had for years—in a place like Nashville, you can’t give those away, especially my red Baby Lamas and pink “Chukka” boots. You can’t really count the six pairs of pumps, or the four pairs of rubber thongs—sorry, six—there are two pairs on the top shelf with my painting clothes. I hardly ever wear any of those, but you have to match at weddings, funerals and the beach. My seven pairs of “flats” keep my feet close to the barefoot position and don’t ruin my arches, Mother. My four pairs of "mules" are definitely needed because they can be kicked off in a flash—and I actually LOVE my turquoise Dr. Scholl’s western mules--except I can't wear them with capris until I turn 70. Of course one must have a pair of athletic shoes—I do. Finally, I couldn’t do without my five pairs of SANDALS—about the closest thing there is to barefoot when you are required to wear shoes!

Slippers + 8 + 6 + 6 + 7 + 4 + 1 + 5 . . . oh, technically I only have THIRTY-EIGHT pairs of shoes. Dang it!! I forgot my garden shoes in the garage and my very fun “hobbit” shoes that Joel and I found at a consignment store--they are in their own category--making a family memory. Okay I really must keep the shoes. I won't buy any more for a long time. Now, I must go work on my Gospel Transformation lesson. Is it on Self-Justification? No, that was last week’s lesson. Anyway, if I ever visit the Philippines or Manila, I probably won’t drive to Marikina to see Imelda Marcos’ shoe collection at The Shoe Museum, but before she dies, I would love to ask her to elaborate on why she owned a bulletproof bra.