I have too many boots. I mean, I don’t think I have too many boots (I love boots). But you might think I have too many boots. Kim K. would pity cry if I told her how many pairs of boots I have.
I’ve been trying to downsize lately. Going to my closet and peeling out garments that’ve seen their day. Or maybe they’ve never even had their day yet, but for whatever reason they cannot be a part of my collection today. Whoosh!
It’s emotional going through my closet, as I would suspect it is for most people. These are items I’ve worn over the moon, through grief and heartbreak. I remember going through my dad’s half of the closet after he had passed away. I cried the whole time. I mean, I could see him in this stuff; someone prying their grubby fingers through racks at the Salvation Army wouldn’t know a thing about it.
I have “memory dresses” – dresses I’ve worn certain places and remember fondly or maybe dresses a certain someone has gotten me. These are never touched. Everything else is fair game.
Today, it was the boots’ turn. I have a certain brand of boot I love to buy. It’s one of my, shall we say, pêchés mignons. (though I desperately wish I did, I don’t speak French; I literally just googled ‘guilty pleasures in French’, and that’s the first thing that came up).
The way I feel in these boots is the way boots should make you feel. The way the first person who tried on a pair of good boots said, “oh yeah, these.” They are at once squishy and supportive, in all the right ways. Every pair I own was purchased with conclusive determination and a borderline irrational level of excitement.
They aren’t inexpensive, so I have to find them places, either online or in-store, on sale. I’ve gotten some really good deals on a few, and this always makes me feel like punching air. Still, I have a few pairs tucked underneath my bed in a super junky shoe organizer (which I would give zero stars on Amazon, BTW), and they haven’t been worn much at all. Maybe I could try and sell them somewhere? I haven’t yet had the chance to visualize myself in them and form a real connection – plus I could use the money.
So I get out this stupid lumpy organizer which makes the shoes fall everywhere inside, and I start trying them on. I put on two different boots to compare and glance at myself in the mirror. At first I’m unsurprised with who I see, a nonverbal groan. It’s just: that’s me, I’m there, fine. I work from home – I haven’t showered or put on makeup in four days. I’m wearing yoga pants that look furry and a loose Gap t-shirt I got for $3 at Goodwill.
But after, that feeling is replaced by another, almost bizarre emotion. When it comes I reprimand myself, then I volley it and finally I let myself just feel it. That feeling of being sexy. But not sexy for you, sexy for me type sexy? That one we do our very best to suppress, because the media spells out beauty in the form of sweeping, minimizing generalities? (Yeah, these boots are THAT GOOD).
So I get out the ol’ iPhone and snap a pic; I mean, this is a rare occurrence. Dirty pores, comfy clothes, two different shoes…SEXY? This had to be documented.
And then, the onslaught:
Ugh, gross. Ew. Uh, no.
My arms, what? WHY am I not going to that class?
Don’t smile, that looks weird.
Suck your stomach in.
Don’t bend that way.
Change your shirt.
Finally, I decided that any pictures with the full me, were totally dunzo. DEL-ETE.
Which, in some ways was helpful, because the pictures I was left with were pretty much just pictures of my legs/feet. Oh and the boots. And that was the initial goal, right? To compare said boots and choose one based on an impression? SPOILER: I’m keeping both.
I’m keeping both pairs, and I’m still wondering why humans (myself included) don’t let themselves feel silently (or even audibly, go you) good about themselves without shame.
Feel shamelessly sexy! (Especially in those makeup-less, furry-pants-wearing moments.) It means you have other things to do, and you love your pets. So sue you.