Nature was some bitch this week, huh you guys? What an epic short stick was drawn by New Jersey and the rest of the eastern seaboard/various, devastated Caribbean islands. By God, these are good days to be landlocked.
As in the wake of every tragedy, with a healthy dose of reality and appreciation for our boring old lives, those of us not directly effected return to the business of living. We feel the need to be louder, better – we’ve been spared and it would be ungrateful to waste this new shot at life. We must go to that Whigs concert we have tickets for on Tuesday night (LISTEN), and we must look a billion times more fabulous than originally planned, because life is short and we need to get laid. To this end, it is imperative we go boot shopping.
Boots! The bane of my existence and one true love! The object of my desire, the most unattainable of goals! See, I too am a victim of fickle Nature. Not the big disaster version of Nature, but the smaller, more immutable and damning Nature. The nature of genes.
Specifically, the dumb genes that gave me the calves of a Fernando Botero nude.
I say this objectively and without body-image anguish: my lower legs are extravagantly disproportionate to the rest of my body. It’s a fact. Imagine stomping around the mall with those tree trunks jammed under your knees, trying to find a pair of boots that will zip up beyond your ankle. Nigh impossible! Hence my years-long struggle, condemned to flats and gym shoes.To fulfill my post-Hurricane Sandy dreams, I had to continue the hunt, doomed though I may be.
So there I was at the store, moping down the aisles of boots meant for the spindly-legged, the trendy, the stiletto heel favor-ers. I feared the shame of trying on yet another pair, forcing the zipper up as far as it would go before it caught my flesh between its teeth and refused to move either up or down until it drew blood and I had to alert the sales staff. I dragged my cumbersome legs to the abandoned discount section of the store and collapsed. I hung my head, for how could anyone like me ever hope to find hot Angelina Jolie boots and wear them to a Whigs concert where the lead singer would fall in love with me and induct me into the band and we would tour the world together, royal ambassadors of rock n roll?
Lo! There, wedged beneath the rack of hideous Kardashian heels was a large, boot-sized box. And within that boot-sized box, a pair of boots! Attractive, knee-high boots, grey, glorious. Could they…? Would they….?
Ziiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip. Right the FUCK up to my knee.
Holy. Balls. It was a Hurricane Sandy Day miracle!
Nature giveth (to me), and nature taketh away (from everyone else, that day). And so that night at the show, as I jammed in a crowd of 15 people (median age roughly 65) in my tall boots and short skirt making eyes at the drummer, I thought, “Let this be a sign unto you, New Jersey, Hoboken, NYC. You too can overcome the shit hand you were dealt. You can rebuild. You will be so much sexier this time. Nature can’t keep us down – let’s dance!”
Insensitivity, thy name may be Erin, but goddamn if you don’t look good in those shoes.