The shoe must go on

I was late to work today -- that is, I was later than usual today -- because someone in my dearly beloved family had the audacity to clean the living room. Besides being a major archeological dig that revealed two Christmas ornaments, a cat toy, five socks and a sofa, that meant someone put my shoes up. In my closet.

How on earth was I supposed to find them there?

I don't keep shoes in my closet. There's no room because that's where I keep clothes I haven't worn in six years, old electronic equipment, presents I hid and forgot about, projects I started and never finished, and, rumor has it, Jimmy Hoffa.

Shoes belong wherever they fall, which is usually three inches from the front door. Occasionally I make it as far as the dining room before taking them off and urging my feet to "run, run wild and free." My shoes have even been known to make it as far as the hall, but there's rarely room there, either, because that's where my middle son dumps his size 15 canoes, which are soon claimed by the kittens for seriously stinky playhouses.

I know it drives my husband crazy. His shoes are always lined up neatly beside his bed, just inside his sliding closet door like proper little soldiers, ready for their next assignment. I think they even salute as soon as they see him put his socks on. I belong to the school of thought that if I leave them by the door, I won't forget them when I leave.

Don't laugh -- it's happened. I drove my kids to school one day in house slippers and didn't know it until the gas station attendant looked in the van and said "Cute puppies." I was flattered until I realized he was talking about my footwear.

I've left the house wearing blue shoes with black outfits, brown shoes with blue outfits and white shoes after Labor Day. I've even been known to show up wearing one blue shoe and one black shoe, which was the only time I ever really got embarrassed. Truth is, most of the time, as long as my feet are covered, I don't care. Carrie Bradshaw I am not. If I could get away with wearing my athletic shoes every day, I would; but even I, fashion disaster that I am, recognize the fact the Nikes don't really fit the working girl's outfit unless you're living in New York and are making a mad dash for the subway before slipping on your spike-heeled Pradas.

My shoe fashion sense runs more along the lines of Crazy Cat Lady, whom I had every intention of becoming before my future husband found me and rescued me from a future of hairballs and 15 minutes of fame on the local TV news.

My best friend collects shoes the way my oldest collected Pokemon, the way my youngest collects Matchbox cars, my husband collects Tums bottles and the way my cleaning utensils collect dust. In other words -- if shoes were money, she'd be able to hire Oprah for Tupperware parties.

"You only have two feet," I tell her.

"But there are 365 days in a year! Besides -- you have more books than I do shoes."

This is true. My greatest addiction, besides nicotine, is fiction. I read romances, science fiction, fantasy, mysteries, suspense, mainstream and even a Western every now and then. About the only thing you won't find me devouring are the hard core military and espionage books, although I have been known to spend a few hours with George Smiley and Company. I also don't read a lot of "serrrryusss litrachooer" because I find most of the authors are trying so hard to be considered "serrrryusss litrachooer" that they become, instead, merely pretentious. You want to read some of the best fiction being written today -- read Nevada Barr's Anna Pigeon series. But the purists will turn their nose up because her books are considered mysteries and thrillers. Pbbttt.

"But every book has a different story," I tell my friend.

"So does every pair of shoes!" she insists. "I wore this pair when my daughter graduated. I got this pair when we went to visit my son. I wore this pair when I got that really good deal on that pair on my trip to Huntsville."

The only stories my ratty old shoes have to tell are "Footloose," "Barefoot in the Park" and "Who let the Dogs Out?"

-- Mary Reeves is a staff writer for the Times-Gazette. She can be reached at (931) 684-1200, ext. 215, or by e-mail at mreeves@t-g.com. This column is published each Wednesday.