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Essay about my old shoes

“Exactly how many shoes do you have?” a friend once asked.

“A few,” I said from my spot on a bench of the Macy’s shoe department.

“So why do you need these? Where will you wear these shoes?” she asked rationally, indicating the five-inch, platform purple suede peep-toe heels in my hands.

And like any good addict, I made an excuse, a defense for my indulgence: “I don’t have any exactly like this. I can wear them anywhere. I need them.”

I became the girl with the shoes. From that first pair of truly tall heels came more. I also became the girl who carried a pair of flats in her purse before I would bring out my cared-for delicacies and let them fend for themselves against the cruel, dirty asphalt. I would ask to stop as I lean against the brick wall around the corner from our destination for support. I replaced the worn flats on my feet with the four-inch suede, knee-high boots cradled in my arms. Those traveling with me would laugh and question my reasoning, but they just didn’t know love.

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I was devastated.
Finally, one day, my owner came into the garage to look for something. He found me lying in the corner of the garage. I felt my hope was regained. My life would return. Actually he did notice me, he did take me to cleanup, but he didn’t appreciate my old appearance. Since then, he has never worn me again to a party and I became his working shoes.
One day, he wore me to the garden to mow the grass. The mower machine was roaring aggressively, it looked as if it would eat up everything. I tried to avoid touching the mower, in case I got hurt. My owner looked very rushed. Unfortunately, his foot was trapped in the mower. The sharp blades quickly peeled my skin off. Luckily I protected my owner’s foot so he didn’t get hurt. But I got a big injury; I was ruined by the sharp blades. I totally became a worn out old shoe. At that moment, through my mind flashed the thought that, once I was a beautiful a pair of shoes displayed in a shop window, once I attracted all the passers-by who glanced at me.

Along with taking an old toothbrush and soap to a pair that has endured a head-on collision with a crusty step or rain-soaked pavement, I have also tended to a wounded pair of heels with super glue where a rip has formed on the toe box. But along with the scuffed, some pairs of my 18 have never been worn. Save me a trip to and from the kitchen. Their stitching is too fine, the hand-woven laces too beautiful for me to take out. These are my trophy wives, and they remain unworn.

I might not be jaded enough to think that it is a real addiction, but shoes do call to me and something inside just makes me answer and I buy them, and I give them a home and love. When I wear them, not only does my 5-foot-2-inch frame get a lift to put me at eye-level with more of the general population, but also they make me feel a little bit special. To some, they might just be items thrown on cold feet to warm them up or hide a past prime pedicure. But to me, they let me play dress up for a moment or a day.

It is surrounded by a play ground on one side and a garden with a small pond on the other. The school has two rows of big buildings. The name of the school is written on the front building. There are ten class rooms in the front building.

Other ten rooms in the back building are used for different purposes such as the Head Master's Office, Library, the Clerk's Office, the Science Laboratory, the Teachers' Common-room, the N.C.C. and Scout Room, etc. There is also a hostel in our school campus.

There are twenty teachers, a PET, a librarian, a clerk and two peons in our school. All the teachers are qualified and experienced. The Head Master is a learned man. He teaches Science and Geography. He also teaches English.

The total number of students of our school is about five hundred. We go to school in uniform.

As I made my way to the dressing room with an armful of used goodies, I spotted the half hidden shelf of shoes for sale. The selection was menial: worn black Mary Janes, ancient engraved cowboy boots and scuffed pale pink flats. But sitting directly at eye-level were a pair of gorgeous, delicate yellow heels. They were diamonds among rhinestones. The color intrigued me. Yellow stands out wherever it is, regardless of whether it is painted on a gorgeous pair of well-made, designer-label, sky-high lookers or not. My free hand instantly went to them, I gasped and let my hand sweep over their canary-colored leather, four-inch heel and pointed toe. I knew they were coming home with me.

I returned to my dorm room. I set them gently on the bookshelf decorated with coffee mugs stacked on top of each other as opposed to a row of textbooks and looked at them. And looked at them. It would be nearly a month before I decided my feet were worthy of their presence. They entranced me because they came into my life when I had recently fled the nest and represented the grown-up me.

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