"The Boots became a part of my persona. I wore them year-round – with shorts, dresses, tights, and jeans. They were worn-in and in some places, worn-down, but they had that lived-in look that money can’t buy. And I loved them. They were a part of my life, and a part of me. Friends regarded them with the same esteem reserved for beloved pets. Boyfriends were aware and supportive of the bond we had. Strange men would
make comments on them in passing. The only way they’d more closely resemble a pet is if they had fur trim (which, no thank you).
"After three years of repairs, I decided to man up and buy a new pair. Victoria’s Secret had them in stock every winter, so I was sure I’d be able to seamlessly replace the old ones. I went online to do the deed but, much to my horror, The Boots were no longer available. Blinking, neon lights shouting “THAT IS SO THREE SEASONS AGO” flashed before my eyes. A moment of panic washed over me as I considered
two, not-good-enough options – take The Boots in for their fourth facelift, or purchase new shoes.
"While I sat on the decision, I resorted to wearing some inconsequential ankle boots that I can’t bring myself to refer to as anything other than utilitarian footwear. It would be blasphemous to give them more credit than that. The Boots sat in my bedroom, staring at me, begging for one more chance. 'I promise not to talk so loudly,' the split-open heel would yammer. 'I’ll go all the way for you,' the zipper urged. I recalled a day when the zipper hadn’t gone all the way for me. In fact it’d only gone halfway up for me, and I had spent a half hour debating whether I should cut the boot off of my foot, or just amputate the entire leg. Because, could I really bring myself to slice up 50% of The Boots? I decided against tempting fate and left my fallen
comrades in my closet.