Call me Imelda

I get annoyed when Baby Nag leaves many pairs of very large, brightly coloured shoes at the back door (above). I shake my head and say,"Where did he get this damn shoe fetish?".
When I started cleaning my closet as part of my manic post-retirement rampage my question was answered. It appears that I am Niagara on the Lake's answer to Imelda Marcos, Phillipine ex-first lady and patron saint of shoe collectors. I had 58 pairs of shoes stashed away neatly in my tiny closet! I can't throw them out if they've hardly been worn and still look like new. Nor can I throw away those that are worn out and look like they've been chewed on by a pack of dogs as they are the most comfortable. I have shoes made by Ecco (2), Rockport (3), Roots (2), Coach, Airwalk, Reebok (2), Guess, BCBG, Nike, Saucony, Bandolino, Liz Claiborne, Naot, Birkenstock, Aerosole, Kenneth Cole, Clarke (3), Anne Klein, Ralph Lauren, Keds and Bass as well as non-name brands and slippers. I could write a song about my collection a la Billy Joel's We Didn't Start the Fire. I put 12 pairs in a box to give to charity. I bought some flat plastic boxes and stashed 18 pairs under my bed (where I found Mr. Nag's long disappeared moccasins). Pretty feeble culling, I know.
The guys I live with are as bad as I am but at least my footwear is small and relatively inconspicuous. Their size 12s take up a hell of a lot of space in every room in the house and I feel obliged to nag them shrilly and incessantly about it. I have managed until now to keep my own fetish secret, even from myself it seems. Mr. Nag was astounded when I revealed the extent of my addiction. He had no idea I had a problem. Is there a Twelve Step Program for out of control shoe shoppers? Point me to it and I'll enroll my whole family pronto.