is a single mama in the city, super-savvy editor, writer, video host and shameless shoe whore.
This is not a shoe blog: Some mornings start with a shoe-gasm
Friday, January 30, 2009
Today was one of them. I rolled over, weary from being up too late on the phone and with my hair a crazy, curly mess and desperate to stay nested in the covers just a few minutes more, when these beauties from my past tapped me gently on the shoulder and whispered my name in a slow, drawn-out, syrupy voice.
Jesssssica. Remember me? I came back for you.
Oh, I remember. I remember you well, granny boots.
I remember lacing you up with perfect-pulled tension so I would feel steadied up on the platforms and speakers where I danced but was still flexible enough to pull myself up and climb down into the haze of smoke and dry ice and uh-uh-uh filling the air.
I remember the click-click-click of those heels in the hall of my high school as I walked, head up, in between classes, averting any security guards' demands for a hall pass with my confidence. I remember swinging my feet over the edge of the ledge overlooking the beach, staring out over the lake past curfew, holding hands with my high school boyfriend, feeling the heels of those shoes scuff as they hit the rocks in time with my laughter.
I remember packing them up to take with me to college and how the girls in my hall called them my city shoes. I remember the thrill when the fall weather hit and I could finally pull them over thick, black tights and parade across campus to geek out over yearbook templates or at Introduction to Agriculture (oh yes, those boots walked me right through a barn to see a bull castrated, a very true story I will save for another fine day).
And I recall the heartache when a hole wore through the sole and the laces snapped and the little grommets bent and broke in my fingers. Beyond repair, they sat at the back of my closet in shoe purgatory until I could take a deep breath and pitch them with the long-ago-pure-white Tretorns and strappy prom sandals.
I thought of you, granny boots, when I stumbled on the most divine pair of combat boots with big heels and the same pinched laces at a consignment shop on Clark Street. They were new enough to have a sheen and broken in enough to avoid too many blisters and they walked me into and in front of classrooms and from one end of Corvallis, Oregon to another for four years. I thought of you fondly again when I bought my first pair of tall black leather numbers, carefully zipping them up and over my calves covered in thick black tights.
And now, here you are again. Seducing me and my credit card with your leathery, lacey ways. Dare I do it? Dare I delve into such blatant boot nostalgia? Or should I just look at you longingly online and move on to higher heels, possibly painfully pointed and pristinely graffitied and red? Should I direct my desire at the gorgeous grrrls with the rhinestone and roses I could never justify, let alone afford?
Oh, granny boots, granny boots, granny boots. You're stomping all over my shoe whore heart.
Reader Comments (6)
-mikee-