Boots are serious business. Good ones must be both sexy and comfortable at the same time, and you should be able to wear them with anything - jeans and a big sweater on a cold, overcast Saturday, a pencil skirt to the office on an important meeting day, a dress and big earrings to the bar on a Saturday night. This kind of versatility is the most important thing about boots, considering a high quality pair can set you back an astonishing amount of money.
I have high demands of my boots - they must be as comfortable as slippers, and make me feel as hot as stilettos. I think boots are way, way sexier than frilly heels anyway. The right pair of boots makes me think of dirty dancing late at night in a roadside bar somewhere in the dusty south. In this mythical land I am throwing back tequila shots, sitting on a bar stool, legs crossed, while a jukebox blares something fantastic and twangy from a dark corner. I am singing along in a carefree, lusty way, my lipstick is perfect, and I am exactly the right amount of drunk.
In other words, this is a fantasy that I will never actually live, but the right boots make me almost, almost believe it could be so.
In this hot little scenario it's all boots, baby. Keep your rickety heels in the city, where every girl looks awkward and steps gingerly over sidewalk cracks and cobblestone streets, and spends the tail end of the night moaning about blisters and forming little blood trails down her heels.
I know all of this about boots from a combination of research and fantasy only, I am sad to report. In real life, I spent good money on one pair of boots ever; then proceeded to wear them every single winter day for the next four years like a sad, boring uniform. There is a literal hole in one of them now. You have to look closely to see it, but yeah, it's there. A hole. In my shoe. Like a hobo.
I have been hunting for a new pair all winter long. I've been circling a handful of stores, prowling some websites. My heart was set on Frye boots but even my wallet starts to tremble around the $400 level. I mean, what am I, a lawyer? Fuck no. I cry a little bit inside when I have to pony up $60 to get my hair cut. Which is why I almost never get my hair cut.
So now you know the truth about me. Instead of being that wild girl at that roadside bar singing and dancing and doing tequila shots, I'm secretly a hobo with shabby, hole-laden old boots and ratty hair. And while we're on this tangent, I should mention that I never, ever have an umbrella with me, or rain shoes, or gloves, or a hat. I have a weird tendency to accidentally steal library books, and to forget to close the door of my apartment behind me when I leave the building. I often toss a banana into my purse and forget until I find it, with deep regret and a handful of black slime, a week later. I regularly fall over things, knock over other things, and just tonight dropped a whole slice of pizza onto a fuzzy blanket but ate it anyway. I tend to swear in the absolute wrong moment, like at a funeral or in front of small children. I will always steal your chocolate. I will never be sorry.
If you don't find these qualities of mine charming in a spastic, pleasantly absent sort of way, then I am not for you, my friend.
But again, the boots: I have hunted, I have prowled, I have been vastly unsatisfied with my findings and unwilling to part with my cash. Until tonight! Tonight, whereupon my dear friend Gina and I browsed through a few stores in the village and happened upon an enormous boot sale at Steven, the high-end version of Steve Madden. Five pairs tried on and some mild stressing later, a new pair were finally mine. Pretty little black ones with a fun, sexy heel and that smell like buttery leather. They were $300 originally.
But tonight? Tonight, my dear friends? Those fantastic little beauties were $75.
I got home and danced around my apartment in them. I tried on all manner of things: jeans, little casual dresses, a sexy dress, and then graduated to dancing foolishly in my bedroom in nothing but the boots and my underwear. This excited no one, but it did confuse the dog, who kept chasing me and trying to lick them. Yes, she literally licked my boots. This is adorable until you realize she's probably actually trying to lick the cow that later became these boots, but whatever. That was his cow duty, and I am duly appreciative of his sacrifice. Maybe I'll eat the burger version of him tomorrow.
Boots, people. Get me that dirty bar, that jukebox, that tequila shot. Or, you know, my normal routine of walking to work and walking back home again. I can handle either plan, as long as my feet feel pretty.
***What I am learning: blogs inspire a weird mix of sloppy, confessional writing, but by 1 a.m. I am too tired to care.***
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