I once had a biology professor who could see the lighthearted side of just about anything. I remember one morning he strolled to the front of the lecture hall, stood for a moment stroking his chin pensively, and began,”Imagine this. It’s a warm spring evening, and a young worm’s fancy turns to thoughts of love.” I don’t remember much else about that course, but I never forgot that line.
So, let us begin. Imagine this. It’s a crisp autumn morning, and a young-ish (or old-ish if you prefer) blogger’s fancy turns to thoughts of boots. Sigh. I love boots. And boot season is finally here.
I don’t have a large collection of boots. Three pairs of ankle boots: my black Stuart Weitzman lace-ups, my brown Paul Greens, and my chocolate-brown suede Prada boots with heels. One pair of knee-high leather and suede boots by Stuart Weitzman.
|Paul Green ankle boots, Stuart Weitzman laced ankle boots, suede and leather Stuart Weitzman knee-high boots|
And my Hunter rubber boots. These boots make me feel like a kid again. Able to splash through muddy puddles with impunity. I have a long history as a boot lover. From my beloved Frye boots in university, to a beautiful pair of knee-high, dark brown leather “granny” boots which laced all the way to the top, and for which I saved and saved in high school.
|Ready for rain in my Hunter boots|
But boots and me, we haven’t always got along.
As a tall gangling adolescent, with sticks for legs, I sighed and moaned about the fact that other girls could find knee-high boots that fit their legs snugly, and looked cool with mini-skirts. Me, I didn’t even have to unzip mine to take them on and off. My long skinny foot and leg just slid right in and out. Sometimes even when I was trying to keep them on. Ha. I’ll never forget writing in my journal in grade nine, that, after weeks of training for the basketball team, my legs were “getting fatter!” I could tell because they filled out more of my boot. Gad. I’m not sure how my mother endured all the drama.
This is what Hubby and I talked and laughed about over our morning tea the other day. Boot nostalgia.
So boot nostalgia, it’s a thing. At least in our house. Hubby and I sipped our tea the other morning, and laughed about boots. Boots that didn’t fit. Boots that leaked. The smell of wet boots drying over the radiators at school, mixed with the smell of wet woollen mittens and hats. Boots that came off when they got stuck in snowdrifts on the sliding hill. Boots that were so slippery and dangerous on portages that it’s lucky the hapless fisherman made it home safely. So many boots.
And somewhere over the years, despite ugly leaky galoshes, and wobbly knee-high boots that never fit properly, I developed a love for boots. I guess it must have begun with those brown, leather granny boots that I saved and saved to buy in grade ten. They fit me perfectly and were the epitome of cool. I was bereft when they finally wore out.
Yep. I love boots, and yet I don’t have a closet full of them. That’s odd, isn’t it? Why am I not out buying boots every week?
Well, it’s partly that I have a hard-to-fit foot. So I may love lots of boots, but not that many love me back. And when I do find a pair that I love and which fit me, I usually spend more than I should on them. And then, I can’t bear to have boots which I love, and which I’ve probably spent more than I should to buy, just sit in my closet unworn. That just makes me feel guilty.
After all, I’m lucky to have my own boots and not have to share. At least according to my grandfather Sullivan.
How about you, my friends? On a crisp autumn morning does your fancy turn to thoughts of boots? Do tell.