The shoes.

"I like your shoes."

I was hoping the cute nurse WAS looking at my shoes and not my toenails. Both big toes are still gross, still cut back to about 1/3 or less, and showing no signs of growth, despite daily medicine.

I told her what I've told a bunch of people recently who have said they like these particular sandals, that they are probably 12-15 years old, and from Walmart. And that it's amazing they're still intact. And how they do go with everything. Shoes.

This was my visit with a plastic surgeon.

Once I was alone in the exam room I wondered if there is a class for medical professionals in which they recommend a compliment to put the patient at ease. I was thinking back to how many times this had happened to me over the course of the better part of a year -- so many nurses, so many compliments on my outfits, my eye color, my hat, my wig, my whatever. And you know what? It did put me at ease most of the time, at least for a moment. It's a nice gesture, even if it is procedure.

Then: Dr. S came in and complimented me on my shoes, too.

That's when I decided, whatever happens, I need THESE shoes. These shoes! They make everything better. As a result of the two-compliment-appointment I have been on an active search for replacements for these shoes. Because as we know, shoes do NOT last forever. We wish they would but they don't. I think back to the many pairs of shoes I have given my heart to that eventually broke, wore out, or got eaten by a dog (not Riley).

I own a lot of pairs of shoes. Embarrassing, really. When we moved last year I did a shoe purge, donated some and ditched some, but even after that I have an embarrassing number of pairs of shoes (oh, and boots, too). I have most (90%) stored in those clear shoe boxes. Before this, I kept all shoes in their original boxes. This ended up being sort of impractical -- boxes got dinged up, they weren't all the same size which made stacking difficult, etc. Anyway, the answer I gave anyone who asked about my shoe "collection" was that not all black shoes are created equal. You need the practical, the sporty, the work-friendly, and the date-night. Heel height, vamp, details, suede, patent, leather, fabric -- all variables that make sense with certain outfits and not others. Therefore one (I) NEED(S) all these black shoes.

After cancer, or really during cancer treatment, shoes became less about fashion and more about comfort. And "comfort." Meaning what is going to soothe and cheer and not hurt. I spent a lot of time staring at my feet during chemo, and shoes were on while tops were off during radiation.

During treatment I ordered a pair of "faux" suede booties from Amazon. They were inexpensive and a color I "needed." They were the perfect height, and were extremely comfortable. So... I ordered them in two more colors. I don't regret it. I wore these nearly every day all winter long, through chemo and radiation, and they made me feel good.

But what about THESE shoes? These shoes that my plastic surgeon AND his nurse said they liked. Well, sad news. My under-fifteen-buck Walmart sandals can't be replaced for that price or anywhere close. I've looked. They're knock-offs of the Jack Rogers Palm Beach Sandal, which is probably what makes people respond to them, cause dang, Jack Rogers sandals, yeah just dang. Sigh.

So while I was on the active search for replacements for these sandals, I realized something big: I really wear a tenth of the pairs of shoes I own. I do NOT need to replace these sandals. I'm going to wear them and laugh about it until they FALL A PART. Fall apart. They're JUST shoes.

I'm friends with some discalced monks. Well, before that sounds too "holy" I mean I've met them and follow some of their orders on social media, but the bottom line is they don't wear shoes. They go barefoot. All the time. It's a discipline. Jesus sent the disciples out and said to take no money bag, no sack, no sandals (Luke 10:4). So these guys (and gals, there are discalced religious sisters, too) take that and actually do it. In 2017.

I'm not sure I'm totally ready to give up the fake-out Jack Rogers sandals and go barefoot, but I do realize that I need a bit of discipline when it comes to the shoes. I wear a tenth of what I have. That's embarrassing.

A plan is formulating.