I have a system for packing. I tell myself my luggage weighs forty pounds, which leaves ten pounds available for whatever glass, stones, or other treasures decide to come home with me.
The shoes are already accounted for.
People might suggest packing fewer pairs to make room. Those people do not understand the system. Shoes never get sacrificed.
I may have a shoe thing.
I collect them, though I can get rid of a pair when the time is right. Some shoes reach that point. Others have apparently signed a lifetime agreement. I have ruby-red Mary Janes with little heels, well-traveled Birks, and cowboy boots I’ve owned since I was about thirteen. We’ll get to the boots.
My mom and I fought over shoes when I was young. There were pairs I wanted and reasons I couldn’t have them, including the entirely plausible argument that I would outgrow them. I remember Candies in particular. When they came back in style, I rejoiced and went out and bought a pair.
I’m sure my mother thought the matter had been settled years earlier. I had merely been waiting for the shoes to reenter negotiations.
The cowboy boots came from an outlet store where the shoes were cheap. I wanted more than one pair, but Mom said I could have one because I’d outgrow them.
I can still wear them.
I do not bring this up every time I put them on. That would be childish. I only think it very loudly.
My feet have also saved me money in adulthood. My brother and I once went shopping for black leather sneakers we needed for work. I can sometimes buy tennis shoes in the kids’ department because I wear a boys’ size five. My brother found it hilarious that his older sister was shopping there and walked off laughing.
He laughed all the way to the cash register.
I paid $75. He paid $135.
I laughed all the way to the car.
These days I want stylish comfort, and I’ll pay for it when the shoe earns its keep. Hey Dudes, Vionics, and my well-traveled Birks have all had their turns. I want to be able to spend the day on my feet without spending the evening asking them for forgiveness.
But comfort doesn’t have to be pricey. Some of my favorite shoes are $20 slip-on tennies. I order three pairs at a time: a neutral, a dark, and a fun. They last about two years, and then I order three more.
That’s practical. It’s also still a shoe collection, just with a replacement schedule.
I know I don’t need every pair for every trip. I choose what suits where I’m going. Then I leave room for the treasures I expect to find. If a piece of glass comes home with me, wonderful. It gets packed around the things I brought to get there.
The shoes are part of that. The comfortable ones let me keep wandering. The fun ones make me happy. The old ones remind me of who I was when I first wanted them.
And the cowboy boots?
After all these years, they still fit. Mom was right about a great many things, but she did not win that particular argument.
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