Well kids, we’ve reached that time of year again when certain phrases start to get thrown around. Phrases like, “Love makes the world go ’round,” and, “All you need is love.” The time when, every single year, you make the resolution that next year will be different. And no, it’s not a) the Super Bowl, which just ended (poorly) or b) New Year’s Day, which is long gone (and you have already realized a life without carbs is just not one worth living).

My friends, Valentine’s Day is upon us, and there are certain things that those bachelors and bachelotettes among us just have to accept. I, for example, must accept that my mother will probably send me yet another pink, glittery card signed by “my secret admirer” and then will call me later that afternoon to ask if anyone actually sent me a “real” card.

And rather than throw myself down the Lauinger steps when faced with these emotional obstacles, it is times like these when I start to think about my shoes.

To explain what I mean, I must first state my belief that “there are shoes, and then there are Shoes.” For me, the former category is defined by a pair of shoes that you wear any day of the week, and when they get old, you toss them out and get a new pair. Running shoes, canvas sneakers, flip flops, Uggs. These shoes hold no particular value to me. They are practical, comfortable, but nothing to write home (or a column, for that matter) about.

But then there are Shoes. If you have a pair (or several) in this category, then you will understand perfectly what I mean. There are certain shoes, the thought of which keeps you warm at night — shoes that, if they could, would give you a big good-night kiss or take you out on a romantic date, and then they would call you the next day and offer to walk you to class. These shoes definitely do not text you at three in the morning asking if you want to “hang out,” and they never vomit at parties. These shoes are the equivalent of a “true gentleman” — and we all know one of those is hard to come by.

My Shoes are a pair of gold ballet flats from Topshop in London. They cost about $25 and are made out of some combination of plastic, rubber and cotton. They are cheap, and, at this point, they are way past wearable. There are holes in the fronts, the backs, the sides, and the gold paint has all but worn away. But I have held onto these Shoes for years and years — six or seven or eight, now that I think about it — and I can honestly say that I love them. More than any boy I have ever met.

Sound sad? A little bit pathetic? Very pathetic and horrendously odd? I do not believe so. My love for these Shoes is grounded in the fact that they have literally traveled all over the world with me, and I have worn them at times when they were the only source of comfort I had. I wore them throughout high school — during times when I was new and had no friends — and then later, when I had made great, even best, friends.

These Shoes have trod endless streets in Paris during my year off after graduating from high school. It was these times when I literally was alone in a foreign city with nothing but my Shoes to remind me that I was not so isolated as I felt; that the Shoes had been to places where there were people who loved me and were proud of me for taking the adventure in Paris that I had, no matter how challenging or how lonesome.

The Shoes were finally retired my freshman year at Georgetown, but not before they had carried me to dozens of parties where, as in high school, I again struggled (or stumbled around trying) to make friends, and then again, when I had made great, even best, friends.

Now they hang proudly in my closet. I cannot bear to throw them away, and, in fact, I probably never will. It is funny how we can grow attached to inanimate objects. Some people call this “being superficial,” but I would like to take a moment to correct them. More than any diary I could have kept, any photographs I could have taken, these Shoes tell my story, and anyone would be lucky to walk a mile in them.

So maybe this coming Thursday, instead of feeling depressed and full of chocolate, I will pull them out again, slip them on, and remember what it is like to fall truly, hopelessly, head-over-heels in love again.

Caroline Smith is a sophomore in the College. She can be reached at smith@thehoya.com. The Hoya Wears Prada appears every other Friday in The Guide.