Footwear, schmootwear

Confession: I’m living with Imelda Marcos. Well, the male version at any rate. And can I say just how embarrassing it is having a boyfriend with a better shoe collection than mine. I know it’s largely my fault – getting to your 30s without learning how to teeter properly in impossibly skinny stilettos is disgraceful, much like not knowing how to use a cocktail shaker or blag your way into a business class seat (ok, ok, I’m still learning that one).
But to come clean, I must admit that nothing matches the comfort of my massage thongs (aka flip-flops, before my international readers have a coronary) or my old-as-the-hills, white fur Chewbacca-style house boots, which are on my feet the second I walk through the front door. I know they sound abysmal but they’re surprisingly sexy teamed with a Bonds singlet and my Peter Alexander pajama pants.
But back to Mr Marcos. The shoe hit the fan the other day when he arrived home beaming. I’d seen that smile before, many times. My eyes widened in panic. And before I knew it, he whipped out two boxes from a large shopping bag and, with a flourish, opened the lids to reveal the pairs of brand spanking new shoes inside. Shoes that, to my untrained eye, appeared mighty similar to the rest of the footwear already languishing in his closet. Not that I said anything, of course; like a true enabler, I ‘Mmmm!’ed admiringly as he patted them like they were newborn puppies, paraded them proudly around the living room, then went to store them carefully on the pull-out shoe rack in the bedroom.
When he returned, he looked decidedly grim.
“I have some bad news,” he announced. “I have filled up my entire shoe rack. Any chance I can use yours?”
Oh the shame, of being a girl and having a half-full shoe rack – of nothing that even comes close to being described as snazzy! I think it’s time I paid a visit to Prada. (Right after K-Mart’s thong sale, of course.)

*** Your turn. Ever dated a guy/girl with a strange collection you didn’t understand? Tell all...