I am constantly amazed at how our lives evolve and change with the passing of time and exposure to new life experiences. I start out as one person and before I know it, I am someone else. Sometimes it happens without knowledge and catches me by surprise. I looked at my rain boots the other day and saw evidence of a new me.
I have always had a thing about footwear. Not just a thing, it’s more like an obsession. When we moved to Charleston several years ago, I discovered quickly that rain boots were a must. Charleston is an old city and the sewer system cannot handle the rain, making the city streets flood from even a drizzle. I made it a mission to find the perfect boots. Charleston is pretty fashion forward, so I was determined to not settle for anything less than spectacular. My rain boots were going to define my style. I visited every shoe store on toney King Street, but found nothing that spoke to me. I then spent the next several days on the Internet. I looked at tens of sites and thousands of pair: pink polka dots were too cutesy, alligators too preppy, and yellow too predictable. But my perseverance paid off, I clicked on page thirty of Zappos and saw the perfect rain boot. They were matte black with studs and straps. They were sorority girl meets biker chick. It was love at first site. I had to have them and I couldn’t wait for standard delivery. I had them shipped overnight.
When I opened the box I was overwhelmed by their hipness. I couldn’t wait for the next time the forecast called for rain. And when that day arrived two days later I chose my going-to-the-office outfit around those boots. I was going to be the most badass glam queen around. They looked super fine as I strutted through the puddles; I felt urban chic. I was a true city girl. I wore those boots every chance I got and took great care of them by wiping them down once inside and out of the weather. Then the “City South” girl packed up and moved to the country.
I’m not really quite sure what those boots say about me now. Those poor darlings have stepped in every type of fecal matter one can find on a farm…chicken crap, guinea crap, horse crap, dog crap, and cow pies. They have been doused with gasoline, axle grease and fouled water. They have been stabbed by farming tools and splattered with stain. They have been caked in cement and then topped with a dusting of chicken feed. The straps, once so perfectly buckled and hanging just so, were torn somehow out in the field and now are knotted in a clumsy ball, hanging listlessly to one side. They have been carelessly left outside overnight and covered in spider webs by the following morning. I never wipe them down or tenderly wash them, although they occasionally get caught in the outdoor spigot when I am getting water for the animals, which washes off the top layer of gunk.
But, for some reason, I still feel like a bad ass in them. I would like to find some deep inner meaning to all of this, but, frankly, I am too tired and overworked to give it much thought.