... It's the sound of my shoes.

There was an old woman who lived in her shoes. That woman, apparently, is me.  Now, I always knew I had a lot of shoes.  So it came as no surprise to me, when I went through my closet today looking for a minimum of a dozen pairs of shoes to donate, that I found 25 pairs to part with. Three of which I was able to sell to a consignment store (woohoo sixteen dollars!); apparently the remaining pairs will be appearing at your local Goodwill store, next to the Babysitters Club CD-ROM or Deepak Chopra book on tape.

Quickly earning the nickname Imelda from my mom (after Imelda Marcos, known for owning 3,000 pairs of shoes), I knew I must own my fair share of footwear, but had never before counted.  However, while I'm happy to report I only own the equivalent of 3% of Imelda's legacy (in number alone and not monetary value, I'm sure -- I clocked in at 106 pairs before donations), my collection was a little astounding to say the least. I mean, some of these shoes I was wearing before I was of legal drinking age (a.k.a. I remember wearing a particular pair of said shoes while taking shots of gin with a gin and grape juice chaser in the dorms... don't tell the R.A.)  To my defense, I narrowed it down to only a dozen pairs of flip-flops, and nearly half my shoes are stored as winter shoes or boots. Still, I feel a little like if I'm not careful I'm gonna wind up on the next episode of Hoarders: Buried Alive.