The Shoerack

I have beautiful shoes. There are the black patent leather t-pumps, a cute pair of red polka-dot ballet slippers, and of course, my velvet wedge sandals with the blue paisley on the heels. I have flip-flops, sequined flip-flops, flip-flops with small little brown stones adorning them, flip-flops with heels, and not to mention, the beach flip-flops. I have sweet brown lace-ups in 1940s style and leopard peep toes. But by all accounts, the reigning queen of my shoe rack(s) must be the Tahari black knee-high boots I snagged last year, with their perfectly proportioned heel and row of covered Victorian buttons up the side.

I am not bragging about this -- many women have beautiful shoes, and if you've seen some of my other fashion choices in the past, you applaud me for my choice in footwear. But lately, I don't even have those.

I work in a "no shoe" office, going for sometimes 24 hours without putting on shoes (other than my "yard" flip-flops). Yes, the woman who hated the fact that others took off their shoes in the office now never wears hers to begin with! The earrings are in, the lip gloss glistens in the reflection of the computer screen, but the shoes? Nonexistent.

Dressed in my standard office attire is no problem, but putting on those great leopard peep toes to walk around my house just seems kind of silly. In a house of hardwood floors, the sound of my heels would just send the alert to the dogs to get in "someone is leaving" mode (following room to room before resigning to pout on the couch and throw dirty looks in my direction), so it's barefoot I stay at my little desk.

And of course, I'm barefoot as I write this. Next time we see each other, let's go shopping for shoes.