The Island Shoe Girl's Blog

Like the Egyptian's I want to buried with treasures and riches... such as these fabulous Michael Kors gold heels. Photo by Jean Thornton.

A recent discussion about cemetery plots has me thinking about my final resting place… well not so much MY final resting place, as I prefer to be cremated and then have my ashes sprinkled across the threshold of several high-end shoe stores.  My concern is more about what will happen to my earthly goods—or  more specifically, my shoes.  I would like to think that the Smithsonian National Museum would be a fitting final shoe closet for my collection—but  if I recall their display of  Dorothy’s Ruby Red Slippers correctly, I am not too assured my shoes will be handled with the care I would want them to receive. 

It may be gruesome to some to think about the end of life, and since I am still in my twenties, it may even seem silly to many.  Yet, if you looked at the height of my shoes and my lack of grace, the phrase “death by high heel fall” may very well appear in my obituary.  If I do not plan now, I could risk leaving my loved ones with tremendous pain and arguments as they determine what to do with my shoes and handbags.  I can imagine my shoes being split up, one sister-in-law getting my Calvin Klein white buckle stilettos and another getting the Michael Kors with mink puffs and gold stacked pumps.  Like siblings being separated in a bad Lifetime movie, this is not the future I want for my shoe family. 

While my condo may contain more than just shoes, I am not nearly as concerned with those items.  My surviving relatives will surely take the things with family sentimentality and history.  Since my dog is absolutely adorable I am sure he will be welcomed into a home without haste… the cat will have a harder time, but she has made her own bad attitude bed to lie in.  Pretty much everything else is of little value since I have always invested in shoes above all else. 

So what do I do with the greatest achievement of my life, a shoe collection well suited for the size seven foot? (Of course there are also a few wild card sizes that I cram my toes into.)  I have a dear friend with an equivalent foot size, but she used to keep her shoes in a large box.   At that time she lived in a smaller home than her current place, I have not gotten the image of heels scrunching leather toes and twisted bows out of my mind.  Plus, she is having children, so who knows what the future of her closet holds. 

My other friends may share a love of shoes but not the dedication I need.  There is a certain way I would want my shoes cared for in my permanent absence.  I need to know that on a Friday night, a great pair of black satin pumps will be paired with a Juicy Couture handbag, and that my funky Betsy Johnson wedges will still be loved enough for an office appearance.  Wherever my shoes make their new home, I want them have the same shoe values I gave them.  Surely, shoes that made my life fuller deserve to have their lives continued in a happy manner after I am gone. 

I fear that without a specified home for my shoes, they may be given to the Salvation Army and sold next to old work boots to complete strangers who are not even screened for the stability of their home, let alone their closet.  Would you let your human kids be treated in this manner?  Sorry, but an orphanage is not an option for my shoes! 

It is clear that I need to talk with my family and an estate lawyer about ensuring my shoes will be taken care of when my time on earth ends.  While to them it may seem an odd request, to me it would be a request honoring my memory and the life I lived.  Question my level of mental stability if you like, but ask yourself this: What will become of your valued mementos after you have passed?   Be it a childhood stuffed animal or your high school football trophy; they represent who we are—or at least how we view ourselves. 

After we are gone a marker may be placed to note our final spot in a cemetery or a plaque may recognize a charitable donation in our memory.  Whatever we choose, our spirit is surely not there; it is with those we leave behind and how they remember us that represent our legacy.  Part of that remembrance may very well be keeping that drooping stuffed animal, high school trophy, or even few hundred pairs of shoes in place of honor.  Regardless, it is my hope that those items will be treated as my memory will be, with a level of respect that I hope I have earned. 

Perhaps, I should resolve to be buried with a double plot so one marker could read, “Stephanie Kaple, Loving Sister, Daughter, Friend—and Fabulous!” and the marker beside could read, “Every damn pair of shoes because she couldn’t trust any of you to love them as she did.”  But then I would have to worry about grave robbers… they went after Abe Lincoln; surely they would go after my shoes.