“Sure, I have nice shoes. They’re in my closet, collecting a patina of dust. My shoes were made for dancing, and that’s why they’re dusty, because my feet, unfortunately, were not made for dancing. My feet were made for making wine, and that’s why my walk is intoxicating.”
“Dancing? Not only do I have two left feet, but they’re different sizes. And I don’t put them in shoes—I store them in glass jars in my basement.”
“If you were to ask me what’s under my bed, I’d tell you shoes. They’re brown, and they’re still attached to the body that’s been decomposing there since I hid it three days ago.”
“Lord, my hands were made for blessing, but not my feet!”
“I took my shoes for a walk. They’re furry and they bark.”
“If my shoes were made of humility; my dress of compassion; my hat of respect, my jewelry of gratitude, and my perfume of determination, I would be dressed for success.”