Boots

“Do you like my boots?” I ask as I move to his couch. They’re the 2024 Black Michael Shannon Reese Tall Dress Boots. The answer is an obvious one: everyone loves them on me. Everyone, except the men that suddenly seem to shrink when I put them on. This question is a test, one I expect him to fail.  Do you like my boots? To a man who I’m now eye level with usually results in They’re a little tall, no? Or the oh so original  I’d like them better off. But his answer surprises me, “Actually, yeah. I never thought much about boots until I came here. Here, they’re everything.” Here. Art school. I sit on the couch and this information for a moment. Bask in the truth of it. Dare to imagine my own personal hell: life without boots.

I believe the saying to be true, that eyes are the window to the soul. But I think boots serve as a balcony for the soul, where it can lounge and stretch out, showing just a glimpse of itself to those who care to look up. Or down, in this case. The obvious line of thought is what a stranger's boots can teach us about them. Do the cowboy boots spell out a Willie Nelson figure in their Spotify Wrapped? Did those Uggs just walk here from starbucks? Do those Doc Martins see the inside of a garage band rehearsal every night? But this is far too on the nose. The real question, and what I believe my friend was getting at, is what do our relationship to boots say about us? Our immediate assumptions about others, despite our personal nuanced style decisions. Like how I recently haven’t been able to leave the house without sporting my roommate’s cowboy boots, even though I run for the hills when men at the bar approach me with them on. Or how my doc’s give me flashbacks to the trenches of middle school, but I won’t hesitate to hit on a girl rocking them. And most perplexingly, why would I ever wear my 2024 Black Michael Shannon Reese Tall Dress Boots to dance? And why can’t I stop?

Here we fall into the curse of the boots. Something straight out of Brothers Grimm or Sex and the City, possibly more lethal than 1984’s The Red Shoes. Picture this: it's my first time going out to dance like a real adult. This is a special occasion, so I’ll wear the boots, just for this first time. My feet will kill in the morning but I’ll have looked so good, I won't even care. 

It became akin to a cigarette addiction.

Just one won’t hurt. But here we are, months later, and I have to reason with myself to give the girls a break and rock some converse to the club. And ugh, I would rather die. My mother scolds me on the phone when I call to complain. She fell into this trap when she was my age, she begs me to take care of my feet now or risk paying later. But she should know as well as me, dancing on elevated surfaces just isn’t the same in flats. Drinking in the mirror ball reflections isn’t as delicious without a heel. And stumbling home at 3 AM with your friends, the world seems a lot brighter when your shoes are clicking in sync with your howls of laughter and clacking with your devotions to the moon for guiding you home.

I thought I was cured the morning after our talk, when I had to take a cab home to my college housing, where many of my peers bore witness to THE 2024 Black Michael Shannon Reese Tall Dress Boot outfit to end all 2024 Black Michael Shannon Reese Tall Dress Boot outfits. Last night's dress tucked safely in my purse,  I was left to strut in sweatpants, a hoodie, and a sleek four inch leather boot. It was so embarrassing, I swore off boots for eternity. 

That is, until the next night.

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