Banishing the bane of my existence

“Ah, details. They're kind of the bane of your existence, huh? Unfortunately, they are a necessary evil that everyone must deal with from time to time. And now it's your turn. But have no fear -- it'll all turn out well.”

That, Bloggie, is my horoscope for the day. Not that my existence depends solely on the alignment of the stars, but the astrologer’s prediction was right on the mark today.

Details here pertain to shoes. I plead no contest to the charge that shoes are kind of the bane of my existence, I mean, over and above clothes, bags, accessories and bath necessities (I think I am addicted to Lush and Body Shop but that’s another story). These are absolute essentials, arguably close to being luxuries for my middle-class sensibilities but they are definitely not staples of vanity…these are a lethal mix…we’re talking bane here so…so, in the event of my involuntary march south of middle class, these are the culprits, ok?…Anyway, where was I?

It must have been the high from knowing some good news from my US employer that suddenly pushed the buttons and set me into a fast and furious housekeeping frenzy.

My eyes automatically took aim at the first casualty of this – how should I call it? – streamlining. You see, Bloggie, Meng’s and my shoes – purchased from 2002 onwards - are neatly strewn (neat and strewn – go figure) all over the place: (a) along the staircase; (b) on the shelf beside the staircase; (c) in my bedroom; (d) on a makeshift four-tier shoestand; and (e) where else, oh where else?

I was a bit daunted but I persevered as I couldn’t contain my sudden obsessive-compulsive need to put some things in order. I stared at the neat pile along the staircase. The shoes in this corner were safe as they were obviously flavors of the month. Now, the shoes stacked in the rest of the areas were a totally different story. Herculean effort is in order, both in terms of deciding which among the horde would be discarded and which would be shipped off to, well, whoever would find use for the used but still fully serviceable pairs. Oh, and I almost forgot to mention that neat hereabouts pertains exclusively to the way the shoes were stored, meaning, a good number of them, being unused for quite some time now, would require a sturdy pair of cleaning hands. I was close to trading places with Hercules.

Here’s why.

It took me the whole day for each pair to be removed from the box/shelf, inventoried, cleaned/dusted, assessed for redundancy, and, for those which passed rigid quality control inspection, returned to the box/shelf. Did I say that by default the boxes and the shelves also needed serious wiping?

I am really driving home my reference to that Greek/Roman hero of extraordinary strength, so here is the register of shoes on which I labored:

(in pairs)

low-cut suede shoes – 3
office shoes (flat) – 5
office shoes (with heels; either closed, open-toed, or with slingback) - 14
boots - 4
flats for walking – 4
shoes for when attending weddings (in satin, silk, or lace) – 4
mary janes - 3
strappy sandals/wedges – 5
sneakers - 7
mojos - 4
slip-ons (flat) - 4
slip-ons (with heels) – 14
slippers (good enough for jeans, skirts, etc) - 12

I leave you the task of adding up the items, Bloggie. (Then I remember a dozen or so pairs which I discarded last year before I worked in Singapore and some other pairs I left behind when I left after ten months.) Okay, take out a quarter from the whole lot because they belong to Meng, and you’d arrive at my share. Which leads me to ask if there’s an anonymous group dealing with this sorry affliction (like Alcoholics Anonymous, Blog Addicts Anonymous….)?

Shoes are the necessary evil that must be dealt with from time to time. That much is true. Although my efforts turned out well, the stars did not grant me immortality, very much unlike what Hera rewarded Hercules for his 12 labors (7 or 12?). But, ordinary mortal that I am, I couldn’t be more proud of my feat.

So. Am I a strong candidate for obsessive-compulsive behavior? Hmm, maybe a few more posts and let's see if I need to hire a psychiatrist. Agree?

But it surely feels good. I feel several pounds lighter. What could be more rewarding than that? I mean, I haven’t heard of a more fight diet regimen where you feel the effect instantaneously.