The right thing to do

I know it is.
The right thing to do, I mean. But my heart cries blood-tears.

I have been changing my wardrobe lately. Finally put away the heavier winter garments, taken out the summer ones. Folded, washed and aired everything that needed it, either for putting away or for taking out. A heavy task; I have way too many clothes.
I have stood there a hundred times, with a wardrobe vomiting stuff all over me, and yet not known what to wear. I do a regular clean-up of my wardrobe every 6 months, I figure "if I haven't worn it once for the last 6 months, then out it goes". And out goes a lot of stuff - usually I just pack a few big black garbagebags and carry them down to the nearest do-good-clothes-container. Must be a lot of very-stylishly-dressed bums out there.

But over the last few days I have slowly come to realize that there is no way (as in NO WAY) all of my sandals, slingbacks, flip-flops, d├Ęcolletes, mules, kittenheels, sabots, wedges, stilettos and summerboots (yeah; i have summerboots) can fit into (and on top of) my wardrobe. That, mind you, expands all the time. Having too many clothes and shoes doesn't keep me from buying more.

So. It dawned on me that I haven't been wearing many of my high-heeled shoes for ages. Years even. Actually there's a few pairs of shoes (ok, 3 or 4) that I. Have. Never. Worn.
And spent a lot of money on.
So I casually (yeah, I am sneaking up on myself here) dropped in on a fancy vintage-shop on Frederiksberg yesterday (it was on my way to work, lalalala) meaning to ask the sweet lady there, if she would take good care of my shoes and make sure they get at nice home, if I were to sell them. Actually the exchange went something like this:

Me: Good day. I am sure you're not interested, and this is probably not the right place for me to come, nor do I know whether you're the right person to speak to (probably ought to speak to a therapist), but I happen to have a.... (shitload) large amount of nice shoes that..
Lady: SHOES? Hell, yeah! Stilettos ???
Me: Well, yeah. Stilettos, wedges, kittenheels bla bla bla (aforementioned)
Lady: Wow, bring it in; I am in need of shoes. Can you bring me 5-10 pairs to start with and then we'll take it from there ?

And before I knew it, I had promised the nice lady to bring in shoes and left my phonenumber.
She called me this morning to make sure we have a deal; that I will, indeed, bring her (my firstborn) 5-10 pairs of shoes tomorrow.
I am now picking out shoes, trying them on, making little turns before the mirror and feeling like a traitor. The shoes lined up to go, seem to look at me accusingly and I can't help but to feel I am really giving up a part of my femininity, my woman-power. For mere money that I don't really need. At the same time I feel (a tiny bit, but I am trying to cling to that feeling) liberated. Like I am starting to quit something that might ... erm... be bad for me. (reciting here; obediently).

And of course I haven't faced the *real* problem yet:
How to not buy new shoes with the blood-traitor-money I get *if* she sells these.


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