Happy Feet

It was a weeknight in October 1998. The evening was clear with a definite chill in the air. Weather perfection. I had a date, a cliched meeting for coffee. At Starbucks even. Decaf for me. I didn't know her well enough to know what choice she may make.

My hair was freshly coiffed and cooperating. I wasn't smoking at the time, so I smelled like a girl is supposed to smell. I chose seasonal clothes for versatile comfort: bluejeans and a black turtleneck topped with a black wool blazer. I wore at least two gold bangle bracelets on my left wrist, a watch on my right. No earrings. My shoes were boots, my black cowboy boots, with a fresh shine. Cash in pocket, $10.

I set forth that evening of my first date with Wendy unaware I was about to be handily conquered, smitten even, by a deer-in-the-headlights look and an eyebrow waggle. Had I even suspected, I may have stayed home. Wendy doesn't believe. She claims I made her work much, much harder and made her wait much, much longer. The truth is somewhere in between. Or perhaps it is as I say? (The best of times, my dear. From then til now and onward.)

But back to my boots. I adored those boots. The miles eventually wore them out beyond repair and I bid them farewell. Wendy enlightened me to the joys of being a shoe whore. (An afternoon spent together at DSW is a hot date. We need bigger closets.)

I ain't no cowboy, but I did miss them boots and kept a casual lookout for replacements. It took me a while to pull the trigger, but last year I acquired a new pair. Via the internetz. Point and shoot. From Made in Mexico to my feet in a mere two days. Free postage. Tony Lama's. Size 10. Just in time for autumn.

This fall is even better: them boots already be broken in.

I still get a thrill every time Wendy waggles her eyebrows in my direction. You should be so lucky.

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