And the Shoes to Prove It

“The harder you try to hide something, the more visible it becomes.”

Thinking about this week’s issue of The Pineapple, I realized that “hidden in plain sight” takes on a whole new meaning inside a busy house.

It’s the butter sitting quietly right behind the ketchup in the fridge. It’s the school shoes lying right where they were kicked off—completely visible to the universe, but practically invisible because they aren’t sitting neatly on the closet shelf.

It’s the specific shirt you’re hunting for, hanging just three hangers over on the other end of the closet rail, silently watching you lose your mind.

The more frantically you search for something, the more the panic sets in. And the moment panic takes over, the object seems to dissolve into thin air.

Did someone steal it? Did the washing machine eat it? Did a closet gremlin crawl out from behind the drywall to pull off a low-stakes heist? You don’t know, but now you’re late, sweaty, and trying to make peace with wearing your third-choice outfit.

Standing there in front of the wardrobe, forced to stare at the shelves, the real truth hits.

I have way too many clothes.

Some items fit perfectly. Some are slightly too small. Some are too big. And a good portion of them should have been donated about three seasons ago. But I keep them. Mostly because I feel too guilty to let them go, or because I’m holding onto the quiet hope that I’ll wear them again “one day.”

Maybe these jeans will fit after this new routine.

Maybe I’ll magically drop a size and suddenly have a whole new wardrobe waiting for me.

But the more I try to shove those “maybe one day” clothes into the back corners, hiding the fact that they don’t fit—and, let’s be honest, probably never will again—the worse it gets. The lack of space becomes impossible to ignore.

The harder I try to hide the overflow, the more visible it becomes that I simply cannot keep everything.

And then… there are the shoes.

The same rule applies, only multiplied. I have shoes that should have been gifted away years ago. Shoes kept “for a rainy day.” Shoes kept purely because they’re still in good condition, even though I instinctively reach for the exact same favourite, comfortable, closest pair every single morning.

The rest just sit in the shadows of the wardrobe, wishing for the day they’ll get to see the light of outdoor pavement again.

The more I try to hide the sheer scale of my shoe collection, the more obvious it becomes to the entire household. My shoes have officially migrated. I have pairs in my closet, pairs tucked into my son’s closet, and pairs claiming territory in my husband’s closet.

Do I have zero regrets about sharing the storage load across everyone else’s personal space? Absolutely. Will I keep buying shoes even though I know, logically, that I can only wear one pair at a time? 100%.

At this point, I almost wish I were an alien with four or five legs so I could justify wearing three different pairs of shoes at the same time. But I’m human, I have two feet, and I have a very decent, non-negotiable shoe obsession.

I can’t hide it anymore. It’s out in the open, fully visible to everyone who walks through the front door.

Will I change? No.

Will I buy fewer shoes? Also no.

Do I currently have an online shopping cart sitting open in another tab with shoes I’m pretending I won’t buy just yet?

Yes. Big yes. It’s right there.

Then come the inevitable questions from the rest of the house. Why do you have so many shoes? Why do they have to be in my closet? Why do you keep all of them? Why have I never actually seen you wear this pair? Why do you love shoes so much?

The answer to that last one is surprisingly simple: I don’t know. I’m not broken up about it. I’m not worried about it, and I’m sure someone, somewhere, has a grand scientific explanation as to why a person can love shoes this much. But honestly? I really don’t know.

And I don’t want to know either.

Everything will be just fine.