Seventeen. Seventeen pairs of shoes.

I counted.

I just cleaned out my closet. Then, I went straight for a Rubbermaid bin in the guest room closet.

I know what you’re thinking. I do.

You’re thinking: “Seventeen pairs of shoes? How in the world does someone keep 17 pairs of shoes she doesn’t need?”

For one, I needed almost all of them at one time. Or, I should say, I wore them. The definitions for the words “need” and “want” are, well, flexible.

For two, the shoes I kept in the Rubbermaid bin were made for dressy functions: weddings, dances, and cocktail parties. I donned them for a few special occasions and wound up holding onto the shoes for years, thinking I might reach for them again.

I probably will—now that they are no longer options.

For three, the two pairs I didn’t wear were flat sandals—the same brand, different colors. I bought them at a big sale.

As far as Gary is concerned, I purchase all shoes and clothing at big sales. The words “big” and “sale” are key to helping maintain a peaceful marriage.

The flat sandals no longer wasted in my closet were cute. Truly. But me wearing them was a pipe dream. My feet tolerate flat sandals about as well as they endure a heel over two inches.

I was not born for high heels. I never mastered the art of wearing them, only teetering and tottering in them.

My tricky Achilles tendon flares up when I wear thin-soled, flat shoes. I acquired my tricky Achilles tendon when my friend Carolyn and I signed up for a 10K.

We had not trained for the race, but that was OK. We said, “We will walk the course, not run.”

Ha. Ha. Ha, ha, ha.

As soon as the starter fired his gun, Carolyn and I took off—running. When one is competitive, she is kidding herself and everyone else by suggesting she might walk, rather than run, in any event called a race.

I remember the day well. The sun’s rays poured down from a cloudless blue sky. Hundreds of runners stretched and jogged in place, ready to complete.

The race began, and my friend and I ran side-by-side, pushing each other to attack the hills and coasting together on the downhill slopes.

We congratulated ourselves at the finish line. We had clocked great times. The next day, I whined to my husband in agony.

“The back of my foot is killing me,” I said.

“Gen, you’ve strained your Achilles tendon,” Gary said.

But I digress.

We were talking about shoes. Seventeen pairs, to be exact. I didn’t just toss them in the trash. I donated them.

Sandals, pumps, wedges, and clogs. For the record, tennis shoes were not included in the seventeen.

I bond with my athletic shoes in such a way that I find it difficult to part with them. Sadly, when I find a pair of sneakers that cuddle my feet in cushiony delight, the company alters the shoe.

The name remains the same, but the shoe is altogether different. In a blink, I’m back in the hunt for a new, perfect shoe.

Thus, the reason I wear running and tennis shoes beyond their maximum mileage limits.

Once grided smooth bottoms, missing eyelets, frayed laces, and holes tell me it’s time to replace them. In other words, I pretty much destroy any shoe that can be defined as a sneaker.

I might recycle them, but I would be embarrassed to donate them.

Love me. Hate me. Criticize me.

It matters not. My closet is bigger. My options are better—minus 17 pairs of shoes.