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My Other Shoe Is a BootNovember 04, 2005 Last night I unpacked a box from Dover Saddlery that had been sitting on the floor for at least two weeks. I knew what it was, I knew they'd fit, and I knew I didn't need either pair till it either rained or got cold, so I let the box sit there till I was ready to open it. Boots. Two pairs: green rubber jodhpur boots, and Thinsulate-lined sorta-waterproof paddock boots. Both Ariats. Ariats fit my size 10 feet exactly right, and I have zero tolerance for shoes that don't fit and foot discomfort of any kind. That's the thing: shoes. I don't own any. All of my shoes are boots, with the exception of my sandals, Birkenstock knockoffs that are at least 10 years old. My last pair of sneakers died maybe a year and a half ago and being, as usual, both broke and cheap, I figured I didn't need sneakers to walk into town in; I could wear my old hiking boots. In addition to the new boots and the hiking boots, my collection includes -- brown lace-up paddock boots, old black jodhpur boots whose elastic sides are shot but they're OK for strolling around the nabe with Rhodry, winter Muck Boots (warm, waterproof, clunky), cheap tall boots that a friend scored for me at a secondhand store more than five years ago, L.L. Bean duck boots (rarely worn since I became a born-again horsegirl), scuffed-up burgundy western boots, nice dressy lace-up ankle boots, and a spiffy pair of striped rubber pseudo-paddock boots that didn't hold up (even though they're supposedly Wellies) but are too cool to toss even though one of the seams split around the fourth time I wore them. My boots take good care of my feet. My feet never hurt. When I was a kid, grown-ups drank coffee and wore high heels (grown-up women, that is -- my father drank tea and I've never seen him in high heels), so I figured I'd know I was grown up when I started drinking coffee and wearing high heels. It never happened. I'm still a hard-core tea drinker, although in my thirties I did take up coffee as a "going out" drink because the tea served in delis and most restaurants was too crappy to pay 50 cents for: Lipton tea bag, Styrofoam cup -- yecchh. The highest heels I ever owned were, at most, an inch and a half. I had to wear somewhat taller ones for a play I was in once, and one of the guys had to show me how to walk in them. (The guys showed me how to apply eye shadow and mascara too. I don't care what people say: guys come in handy sometimes.) It never occurred to me that the desire to drink coffee and wear high heels did not just happen, like getting your period. Growing up, I thought high heels were uncomfortable and stupid: my mother was always breaking her heels off in storm drains, and I laughed every time I saw a woman in heels and a tight skirt running for the bus or the subway and missing it. Why would anyone want to wear shoes they couldn't run in? High heels had to be a mysterious compulsion that hit you when you reached adulthood. Now here I am in my mid-fifties, and not only do I never wear high heels, I don't even own any shoes. Coffee? Strictly a recreational thing. I can quit any time. Adulthood? I'm still waiting.
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