Walking in Mama's Shoes -- Redux

While I was out of town, Jill undertook cleaning our bedroom closet. I only wish I had before and after pictures, because the results are spectacular.

One of the improvements concerns the organization of shoes. Despite the recent thinning of my collection due to a young dog who loves to chew footwear, I am still the fortunate owner of a gracious plenty of shoes, boots, slippers, flip-flops, heels, moccasins, and even an ancient pair of tap-dancing shoes and some bedraggled black ballet slippers. Among this extravaganza are many pairs that formerly belonged to my mother.

If you read a previous post Walking in Mama's Shoes, you'll remember that she was convinced that her shoe size was 2 sizes smaller than it actually was. This was not entirely due to dementia --- small feet are highly prized in our family. My mother's father owned a shoe store. Back in the 50s he even had one of those x-ray thingies, I think. I definitely remember the slide rule foot measurer and the slanted footstools. We bought our fall school shoes at Grandpa's store. I especially remember the red leather first grade shoes, the ones with the buckle across the top.

I'm not entirely immune to the small-foot fetish, and I have to admit that I've often thought that my pretty little feet are one of my best features. Yes, they're smaller than those of the other women in the family ---- except my teensy daughter. Even my sister teases me that my feet look like they've never been used. They haven't. I screw them off and put them in a satin lined, climate-controlled box every night when I go to bed.

In the interest of organizing our shoes, Jill purchased a fancy-dancy round, hanging shoe holder, with spaces for everything ---- quite amazing. Now that Mama's shoes were no longer tumbled on the dark floor among the suitcases, old gift boxes, and discarded t-shirts waiting to go to the thrift shop, I could see and wear them. Yesterday, I donned a pair of slip-ons, black loafers like I have never bought in my life, but since they were free.... The were too small, especially with warm socks on a cold day. But I was only going out for an hour. They would be ok.

By the time I got home, the toes that were not altogether numb from being squooshed, ached. I gratefully slipped the loafers from my feet and started to return them to the shoe bag, when I stopped myself. What in the world? Was I going to keep these shoes, and the other pair like them only a different color, just because they were free? Because they were Mom's? Because they have a lot of wear left in them?

That's what I've always done. That's why my closet it stuffed to the gills with things I rarely or never wear. They used to fit, but they don't anymore. They used to be my favorites, but they're old and outdated. They used to belong to someone I love. They were given to me free. They're vintage. They're soooooo cute (or I used to be cute in them, 30 years ago!). Not one of those is a good reason to keep clothes I don't use, but perhaps the worst is the "someday it may fit me" reason.

What if I simply got rid of everything that doesn't fit me right now? Even if it almost fits. Even if it's just a little too tight around the waist or across the toes. Even if the skirt hangs just a little funny, or the pants aren't exactly the length I like or I got it on a great sale, but never liked the color. What if I only had clothes and shoes I actually wanted to put on and wear, instead of waiting till that magical time when I lose weight, or have more money to shop, or go back to work, or have to go to a funeral. Well, ok. I'll keep the funeral outfit. Sooner or later I'll need it.

I have lived too much of my life making do and waiting for something to change. I don't have to wear Mama's shoes just because they're in my closet. They're too small to be comfortable. They were too small for her, but she wore them anyway. I don't have to do that ---- I don't have dementia.