Five minutes ago I threw out two pair of shoes: my Manolo Blahnik pumps and my Moon Boots. Both represent an important part of me, the fashionista and the Sci Fi-ista.
Both were beyond worn out.
The only reason I don’t have pictures to support my proclamation that my shoes were busted is that, frankly, they were beyond what a normal person would consider wearable. My BF referred to my Blahniks as “Three Stooges Style.” My Moon Boots, which defy practicality since I live in Los Angeles and am not an astronaut, were held together with duct tape around each toe.
Frankly, it was an embarrassment.
But I ask you, don’t we all have something that we don’t want to throw away, something that represents such an inexplicable relationship to who we are or who we were or who we hope to be, that we’re unable to part with? Something we identify with us, that we protect, keep secret, and covet? I think yes. But how do we translate whatever it is that these objects say about us into us, as in, into just being who we are, with or without labels and funky fresh footwear that promisese traction on lunar surfaces?
I don’t know the answer. I wish I did. Because until I do, the only thing I know for sure is that baby needs a new pair of shoes.