When I was three years old, I wore a
pair of yellow rubber jellies until my heels bled. No one could get them off
me. They were pretty, and that was that. I didn't care how much they hurt.
There were other memorable shoes in
my life, too. Shoes that mesmerized me and made me throw caution and comfort to
the wind. Sparkly ones, bright ones, ones that went
"clickity-clack" when I walked. I even made my mom sign me up for tap
dance lessons just so I could wear the shoes. There were the shoes I
wore to my cousin's wedding when I was 12. They were sequined and a little
too pinched at the toe. They hurt and made dancing nearly impossible, but
looked really good with my dress and made me feel older. They were great.
Through the years, my shoe focus
evolved. Sometimes, sandals were my obsession. Sometimes anything
pink. There was even an unfortunate misstep in grade school when I fancied
moccasins. I had blue ones, green ones and, of course, the obligatory brown
pair complete with eagle-style beading over the toes.
me, pink workboots, age 3
It wasn't long into high school,
however, that I came to realize that I wasn't your typical,
run-of-the-mill Carrie Bradshaw. My taste wasn't with Manolo Blahnik or Christian
Louboutin. I loved boots. Leather boots, suede boots, heeled boots, dress
boots...boots for rain, boots for formals. Boots, I realized, were the perfect
footwear for every occasion.
It all started in 9th grade when I
slipped my foot into what would become my gateway boots. Cowboy boots. Slightly
rounded at the toe with light brown leather, white stitching and a dark
brown heels. I loved these boots immediately. They were the soles to my
soul. From the minute I slipped my feet into the buttery leather, I knew I’d
found my path to a comfort and style that felt like home. I stood a little
taller when I wore those boots, and that had nothing to do with the two-inch
heels.
Boots, I realize, can reflect my
mood. I have boots that like to have fun, and run along with me to parties. I
have boots that ooze elegance, and have shared special occasions with me. I
have boots that wrap me in safety and help me get through tough times. Even my
slippers are boots.
Boots are a part of who I am. I
spend most of my waking hours in my boots, and even more hours with
thoughts of boots creeping into the corners of my mind. Maybe not
consciously, but somehow boots are always there. They are there on
others, standing at attention in my closet, inching out into the room
and begging to be picked to share the day with.
