A Shoe-Based Existential Crisis

Last night, I was finally prepared to deal with all the things I’ve put aside to sell on eBay. The lighting was ready, the dogs were miraculously quiet and I had the house to myself for the evening. However, I fell at the first metaphorical hurdle: listing the shoes.

I could picture myself wearing the boots I was about to list. I knew that there were things in my wardrobe that they matched. I also knew that the last time I wore them, they got quite a lot of attention in Brighton. So why had I earmarked them for selling? I’d always thought them perfect for me.

At the risk of sounding dramatic, this one act of decluttering made me question my entire self. Who was I if not the girl who wore those colourful velvet boots? How did I dress if not in those boots with skinnies and a bouse? Despite my slow indoctrination into a flats-only life, I still saw myself as a dramatic heel wearer. I’ve accomplished things, but have such a visual mind that I’d have difficulty believing I had a doctorate unless I got to wear a white coat.

When the Laird Hamilton returned home, I asked him to describe me to myself so I could somehow remember that I have a personality. He laughed, saying that he couldn’t tell me who I was. Also, he reminded me that my stuff is not my personality, but it can make an impression on others if I wish it to. Did I want my clothes to speak before I did?

Ever the introvert, I decided I prefer for it to at least say something. A murmur of introduction or a quiet greeting. My outfit doesn’t need to shout at others, but I do like for it to be noticed.

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