Before you begin reading today, I want all readers to notice that the title is not The Shoes, but instead the shoes. This post will not be a riveting tale of fabulous shoes and how they came to be mine. No, not all. This story takes place in completely different time and setting.
The shoes at my house are completely out of control. Don't get me wrong, I LOVE SHOES! I would have a million pair if I could. My mom used to call me Imelda (after Imelda Marcos), and that was before I was of an age where I could buy my own shoes. BUT...my shoes are not the problem.
My home houses four sons and my husband. They have shoe problems.
Inside the garage, next to the door to the house is a boot rack. It is a shelving unit with wire shelves to hold boots. The wire bottoms let the mud and dirt fall off the boots, so it can easily be swept up. I should say "in theory" as we don't know if this actually happens. The shelves have the potential to hold about 8-10 pairs of boots. Unfortunately, boots are rarely placed on the shelf, so it has yet to live up to its potential. Instead, the boots sit on the floor in front of the shelf, or they are kicked off in every direction, landing exactly where I will trip over them.