His shoe rack:

And mine:

OK, I know. It’s bad.

I should say in my defense, though, that the yoga mat is an anomaly. It normally lives in a corner of the closet, invisible, neglected and forgotten. This way I don’t have to face what it says about me as a physical specimen. But it fell over the other day when I was vacuuming, and I haven’t gotten around to picking it up it yet. Sue me.

And another thing: the blue sweatshirt in the upper left. That’s not usually there. Where did it come from? I’m as clueless as you are. Or close. Let’s blame my husband. And ignore, please, all protestations to the contrary in the comments below.

As for the rest of it? I acknowledge it’s bad. And I regret that. But Myra-Jean constantly takes my heels — all one pair of them — out to wear around the house. That’s a difficulty. Furthermore, I have an ambivalence about shoes which leads me to neglect their upkeep. Maybe it’s greater than an ambivalence. Maybe it’s a low-range hatred. And maybe it’s not low-range. Maybe it’s nuclear. Maybe Imelda Marcos and I would fight. To the death. In a giant ball of flames. I, in bare feet, she, in rage-red stilettos.

Look, left to my own devices I’d wear the same pair of once-brown, unstitched, mildew-stained, sexy-killing, “I’ve stopped caring” clogs every day. Except that someone finally made me throw them away. Actually, several someones. All related to me. In sort of a sartorial intervention. Sadly, not my first. And even more sadly, not televised.

But hey, at least my dress shoes don’t all have a coat of dust three feet thick on them, like some people’s I could mention.