If the Shoe Fits

Let's assume we all agree with this statement: Admitting you have a problem is the first step to finding a solution because, obviously, you wouldn't waste time solving a problem that didn't exist. So, for argument's sake, (and to give you a reason to keep reading) let's say I have a problem. I do, however, want to make it clear that I don't have ink smeared fingers or a scary looking mug shot. I've never woken up with broken heels, wondering where I was or what I did. No one has ever checked me into rehab without my consent. There is sometimes pain and suffering, but it's usually a result of nothing more than poor planning.

I have, however, sometimes pretended I didn't do it. I've also promised that I won't do it as often. I never promised to quit doing it, though. I admit that some people have better control over it than I do. Most of my women friends share my compulsion to some degree. Most of the men I know do not. It was not, at least until recently, an obvious addiction; maybe because no one had yet scheduled an intervention. So I'm admitting that possibly, there could be a chance that maybe I might have a problem.

My name is Linda and I could be addicted to shoes. I love shoes. So I buy them. A lot. Why, you might ask, is that a problem? Everyone needs footwear, especially if you have feet and a place to go every day. And, as there are four seasons, you need at least four different types of footwear. That's where I believe the problem may have originated. And it just seemed to escalate from there; clothing, accessories, color, style, safety, comfort level, company kept, activity planned, etc. etc. (Okay, safety and comfort are never real considerations, but, theoretically, they could be.) There is, I'm convinced, the perfect pair of shoes for every occasion. And I have them all - from hoedown to biker bar. Mostly in black.

If you have never heard of this addiction or considered it a certifiable medical condition, there are some signs and symptoms you might be blissfully unaware of. The first and most noticeable problem is that I only have two feet and there are only 365 days in a year. Compounding this problem is the fact that I have shoes I like so much; I'll wear those two days in a row. And, that means there are shoes I bought and never wear, never wore, and/or would never ever wear again. Yet they remain in my closet, taking up space (and cramping my new shoe storage potential).

Has my shoe fetish interfered with my life? On the occasions when I'm limited to one carry-on piece of luggage, there is some whining. When it's time to go and I can't make a shoe decision, there might be yelling. And when I wear the wrong shoes for an activity, there is often guilt and remorse. Did you ever try to play football in spike heels? It's all fun and games until someone gets poked in the....Well, anyway. Can I control this addiction/compulsion? That is a matter of opinion, but, at this point, the answer is probably no - the shoes (and the evil shoe designers) are controlling me.

So where can I find help? I tried googling "shoes." Did you know there are 842,000,000 places to buy shoes? "Shoe addicts anonymous?" Not listed in the yellow pages, but it is a book; fiction, a female bonding story. They even made it into a movie. And it's listed right next to the links to the most popular shoe buying websites. How convenient!

I would turn to a supreme being for assistance, but I think that He might be a tad busy with crack addicts, hoarders, and, of course, Charlie Sheen. My husband can't help, mostly because he's an enabler, has great taste in footwear and lacks impulse control when it comes to making me do the happy dance. My family thinks it's funny, and my friends and co-workers show me their shoes and suggest brand new on-line places to shop for more. They've been no help whatsoever. (Yes the shoe selection was amazing, and I did find some really cute ones - thanks, Becky.)

I think it might help if I could find a sponsor (i.e. someone who's been a former footwear fanatic and now wears nothing but flip flops). I will be glad to examine past shoe buying errors. I can (and have always intended to) make amends for the errors in judgment that made my feet bleed or were so hideous, even Ronald McDonald would cringe if he had to wear them in public.

Learning to live a new life with a new code of behavior might be a little trickier. I would have to quit my job (which requires shoes) disconnect my internet connection, (which eliminates 90% of my social life) and stop leaving the house, which would be fine in the winter, but without FB, I'd end up friending the heels and chatting with clogs.

So I don't think I'm quite ready to take that first barefoot step yet. Giving up shoes would obviously create more problems than it causes. After all, I still have some standards and control over my addiction. I don't buy Uggs (they're ugly) or Manolo Blahnik (I can't afford or remember how to pronounce them), and I (almost) always return the shoes I can't walk in. I know some of you will be disappointed in my inability to admit my problem and overcome my addiction, but at least no one can say I got cold feet.