For whatever reason, I might call it a whim, I dug all the way down to the bottom of my chest of drawers when I packed for parents’ weekend.
Oh sure, I had pulled from my usual staple of presentable yet comfortable duds, the going-out wear that I think looks a little more put-together than the wrinkled mess my weekday self can seem to manage, as well as a few pieces of athletic wear that I would most definitely don should a gym (or a nearby park) present itself.
But I also folded a fancy skirt and a vintage pair of dress boots into my luggage.
I don’t know why I thought to do it, really. “Dressing” just for dinner isn’t usually something I do.
In fact, the last time I wore a dress was for a funeral several years ago.
“Options,” I told myself, while thinking it might be an odd pang – like a craving – to wear the boots again.
They are black leather, knee-high boots with a square toe box, side zippers, and synthetic liners. They aren’t what I would call fancy, but with a little polish and very little circumstance, I think they pull my outfits together.
They have also proven to be just as comfortable as my cushiest running sneakers.
In fact, when a stress fracture forced me to take an eight-week rest from running nearly a decade ago, my beloved dress boot not only matched the height and comfort of the therapeutic boot the doctor prescribed, it almost made me forget I was injured.
For the life of me, I can’t remember where or when I bought them. It just seems as if I’ve always had them. They are like old friends, the kind that will walk for miles with you in any kind of weather.
And that’s what I was trying to explain to my daughter as we found ourselves jogging to make our seven p.m. dinner reservation.
The nostalgic me wanted to share the time-tested quality over quantity wisdom, and impress upon her how magical it was to happen upon the holy grail of finding shoes that will carry you comfortably for more than thirty years.
To her credit, she didn’t roll her eyes. Though she might have, had she known that not twenty minutes earlier, I’d found a hole the size of a nickel along the zipper’s end grain. Probably the work of a mouse.
And I didn’t let on, seventeen blocks from where we started, just one measly corner away from our dining destination, the strange burning sensation on the ball of each foot felt like it was about to catch fire.
Experience kept me from blaming the shoes, so I quietly cursed my socks. Somehow, they were rubbing something the wrong way.
But alas. When the night had ended and I sat with my legs in figure four, pulling the boots off by the tip of the toe with one hand, and the cup of the heel with the other, I saw the hole. When I checked the other boot, I found another hole to match.
“I’m sure you could have the soles replaced,” my husband offered dutifully. He’s not opposed to buying new, but he understands the value of familiarity and sentiment, if not the difficulty of finding heels that don’t try to murder you every step of the way.
I know the boot company is still in business, and that it might be cheaper to buy a replacement than seek a partial reconstruction. I’m even hopeful that I’ll get another thirty years out of the new pair since I know these boots are made for walking.
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