Who Am I Kidding?

I have a particular affinity for cowboy boots. I’m not really sure why since nothing else that falls into the category of ‘country’ appeals to me. I don’t wear belts with big buckles or shirts with snaps. I’m not into cowboy hats. And, truthfully, I find country music downright annoying. I might like country dancing except for the fact that my utter lack of coordination prohibits me from dancing in any form without looking like I’m having a seizure.

So, really it is just a boot thing.

Recently, I started thinking that I should try and find some boots in a more practical color. I have some that are pink and blue. Cute, but tricky to match with much clothing. I have some that are red and black; and another pair, embellished with big red hearts and turquoise arrows, that are just downright garish. Those are my favorite.

I also have a tendency to wear my boots with just about anything. On more than one occasion I’ve been ready to walk out the front door only to have a family member stop me to ensure I really do intended to leave the house like that.

I do.

Anyway, as I’m getting older and more mature I decided that I should find a less flashy pair of boots. That way I could still have the whimsy of wearing cowboy boots, but with an elegant, more subdued style.

I embarked on a quest. Okay fine, I embarked on an obsession, to find a pair of cowboy boots. I figured that the best place to start was Craigslist. I’m pretty sure I could muster up some philosophical reasons why ‘recycled’ clothing is good for the environment and produces less waste. But, the truth is…I’m cheap.

Sure enough, I found cowboy boots on Craigslist. Lots of them. But the ad that caught my eye included photos of scads of every color cowboy boot imaginable. Blue and pink and red and purple and white as well as the requisite black, brown, and grey. All those boots, there for the wearing. It got better. The owner was a former rodeo queen.

I’d never met a rodeo queen.

We arranged for a meeting place and I told her I only wanted to look at brown and black boots. But, the morning of our meeting she phoned and told me her plans had changed and it would be better if I could just go to her house. This was, of course, against my better judgement. But, after getting her address and looking it up on MapQuest, I told the voices of reason to quiet down.

I admit, I was a little excited. I’d never met rodeo royalty before! In fact, I had no idea what a rodeo queen did. Or, what made her royal. Or, if smelling like a horse caused her to feel slightly less regal. Nevertheless, I recognized that driving to the middle of nowhere, by myself, to the house of someone I’d never met, was a smidge reckless. So, I wrote her name, address, and phone number on a piece of paper and left it where my family could find it in the event I disappeared and was never heard from again.

But really, she’s a rodeo queen, what was she going to do, lasso me to death?

After putting my ill-placed trust in the validity of MapQuest directions, making several wrong turns, and performing a variety of miscalculations, I made my way down a washboard dirt road to the palace. Which, wasn’t a palace. I’m not completely sure what I expected but, whatever it was, neither the rodeo queen nor her house met it. Don’t get me wrong. She was delightful and pleasant; if a little scatterbrained. She definitely wasn’t wearing a crown. Or a cowboy hat. Or shoes. And maybe, just maybe she had the slightest little issue with being a hoarder. There was stuff. Everywhere. Piles and boxes and stacks of debris. I wasn’t able to ascertain why she decided the cowboy boots had to go. Based on what I saw it didn’t look like she’d ever gotten rid of anything. Ever.

She chattered away while she led me down an uneven and slightly treacherous brick pathway to what looked like a garage. I did have a moment of concern that, were she really a wrangling miscreant, my body might never be found simply because of all the mounds of refuse lying around. Instead, she led me into a lower section of the house and we entered through the backdoor. More piles. More boxes. More stuff. We finally arrived at the storage room which, frankly, didn’t look all that different from the rest of the house, and there were the cowboy boots eagerly awaiting new (and maybe neater) homes.

The rodeo queen left me alone to try on boots. Like Goldilocks, though, I couldn’t seem to find just the right pair of black or brown boots. This one was too big. This one too small. This one too worn. I started to feel a little discouraged about spending a huge chunk of my day and a half tank of gas on this pilgrimage.

And then, just like something out of a movie, I saw the boots. They weren’t perfect. The style wasn’t exactly what I wanted but, I knew these were the boots I was destined to own. My expedition hadn’t been for naught. The gods of used footwear had, indeed, smiled upon me.

I learned an important lesson through my quest for neutral cowboy boots. A lesson we might all take to heart. I learned that no matter how old I grow, in the words of Popeye, “I yam what I yam.” Regardless of the frivolity, I’ll probably always do impractical things just for the fun of it. No matter how much I plan for the sensible, I’ll probably always give in to the fanciful. And no matter how many pairs of brown and black boots are available.

I’ll probably always buy the turquoise.