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Shoes have never been part of my indoor life. Like lots of city dwellers and neat freaks (and Asians, too — hey guys), I leave them at the front door so I can preserve some sort of threshold between the grime and burdens of outside and the controlled serenity of inside. But these days, I find myself wanting to bring shoes inside. I’ve found all my old house slippers, acquired some new ones, and matched them to my inside clothes. When I need an extra pick-me-up, I’ve been reaching for pairs of rarely worn, clean-soled shoes — fussy slippers, too-small heels, obscenely patterned clogs. I wear them for no one to witness but myself. Inside shoes have helped me feel comfortable in navigating unusualness, and settled in these new patterns of solitude and chaos. I doubt they’ll be part of my After Times, but I feel like they’re helping me arrive there with some good humor and lighter spirits.
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