“When one door closes, a shoebox opens.” — Carrie Bradshaw, Sex and the City

We decided to begin the dreaded task of de-cluttering the house this week. It’s no big deal to husband Josh, but to me, well, I’d rather shove an ice pick through my freshly-pedicured big toe.

When faced with letting go of “things” I’ve had for years — even decades — I just get paralyzed. Totally immobile, hopelessly frozen. I’m sure it’s some sort of childhood trauma rearing its ugly head, but I tend to ignore anything that requires authentic introspection.

So when it came to dealing with the shoe section in my closet (I’m guessing there were a minimum of 50 pairs) I just couldn’t commit to any serious elimination. I ended up collecting a box of heels  that are insanely uncomfortable, way too small, and pointless to keep. I said to Josh as I reverently held up a pair of Calvin Klein satin sling-backs, “How can these be a size 8? I’ve never worn a size 8.” (If you care, I wear a size 10.)

But man, are they cute.

Then I unearthed a pair of cinnamon-colored silk rose pedal-accented sandals that I absolutely couldn’t let go. (Pic #2) Ga-ga-gorgeous — but unwearable.

And man, are they cute. (Pic #2)

If you have experienced this kind of uncontrollable obsession (clinging to useless objects for absurd sentimental reasons) please contact me. I just need to know my issues are not “solely” my own.