Give Me the Boot

Confession: I am a boot whore.

I have no sense of footwear monogamy. I am not loyal to a single pair. I am a polygamous boot whore. I don’t play favorites, which I suppose is the glass half full way to look at things. I’m also not partial to a particular color. My boots would be at home in a Crayola box.

Black
Brown
Tan
Camel
Red
Bronze
Reddish Brown
Mulberry
Houndstooth
Hunter green

I have tall boots, ankle boots, mid-calf boots, cowboy boots, buckled boots, hiking boots, snow boots, lace up boots, Frye boots, riding boots, rain boots, desert boots, suede boots, even a shoe/boot hybrid called shooties. I’m missing peep toe boots, Ugg boots, gray boots, black cowboy boots, patent leather boots, kick-ass buckle boots. I’m embarrassed to tell you how many pairs of black boots I have. Let’s just say that if it were Bird’s second grade math word problem, it would go something like this: Ilina has twice as many pairs of black boots as brown boots. She needs more than one hand to count her black boots. I store my boots in the boxes they came in. If Mac Daddy actually counted the neatly stacked boxes, organized by color, he might have a conniption. I have stacked up quite a collection of boots. I’m not treading in Imelda territory, but it is borderline obnoxious. Bear in mind that I always get my boots for a steal and that I keep them forever. I am not the kind of girl who buys for a season; I buy for a lifetime.

Every year I look forward to boot season the way my sons look forward to Christmas. Nevermind that I always ask Santa for the perfect pair of black boots. This year I covet some tall black boots with a heel (not too high) and a dressy look about them. I’d like the counterpart in brown too. I also have a thing for red boots. I’ve been looking longingly at my tights and cardigans that are cuter draped over a dress than with anything else. I’ve peeked into my boot boxes and possibly exhaled an audible sigh. Boot season makes me happy. Boot season ushers in some of my favorite things — fires on the patio, squash soup, crunching leaves, hot cocoa, fresh cider, crisp air, college football, fuzzy slippers, flannel pajamas, and the dog sprawled at my feet. 

Boots can take a jean skirt from mom to vixen with the flash of a zip. Boots help me fake confidence when I’m feeling anything but. Boots give me swagger and a deliberate stride that tells the world I am somebody. Boots give me an edge while flaunting my curves. Boots are my weakness, my indulgence, my superficial fashion fix.

I don’t believe in monogamy when it comes to footwear. I am the Casanova of boots.