Because I’m old. O.L.D. Too old for these Union Jack boots, even though I love Union Jacks, from a graphic standpoint and because some of my happiest years were in London.
I ordered the boots in two sizes, because with free shipping and returns, who cares? When they came today, I was amazed at how much they looked like the pictures online. Even more so, actually!
I stood up for only a moment before realizing I could never walk in them. The heels are at least 6 inches high. I’m too old to get up and measure them but trust me. I thought the platforms would help but they didn’t. I was way up in the clouds, far far away from the ground that I desperately don’t want to fall on.
I showed them to my husband before putting them back in the box. He tried not to smirk and quickly looked away.
What does he know?! I thought.
Later, he shared his epiphany about the boots: I’m just too old for them.
I’m pretty sure this is a first. We talk about aging and how we plan to continue doing it. We don’t want to be slobs and we don’t want to change our respective styles. We don’t want to be deluded assholes, though. And so far, so good.
But now I felt defensive about the stupid boots. I insisted that if only I could walk in them, I could make them “work.” I would wear them with long wide jeans, and only the toes would show. IT WOULD BE A POP OF FUCKING COLOR, ALRIGHT?
He was dubious and I took it as a vote of no-confidence in my taste and self-awareness. Like I might suddenly wear black lipstick and a mini-dress with a lampshade on my head. Like I don’t know what I’m doing.
Or do I?
Tell me the truth: Are the boots a sign of senility or a grave miscalculation? Or both or neither? Don’t hold back.