These have an almond toe. Those have a rounded toe.
These have eight pairs of eyelets and a Vibram sole. Those have twelve pairs of eyelets and a leather sole.
These are suède. Those are also suède, but the nap runs north-south rather than east-west.
These are waterproof. Those are . . . also waterproof. No, wait, neither is waterproof. That other pair of black boots is the waterproof pair.
These I bought on sale. Those I bought on Facebook Marketplace, before my account was suspended—IN ERROR, but have you tried communicating with Meta? Like screaming into the void. This other pair, I paid full price.
These I bought a half size too small because they were the only pair left and were just too good. I was certain at the time that, if I wore them every day, they could be stretched enough to feel comfortable with a thin sock. A very thin sock. Turns out I was wrong about that.
Those I bought on eBay in a fit of high-school nostalgia. Never worn (and in the original box!) and only fifty bucks! Because I couldn’t try them on, I didn’t realize how uncomfortable they’d be across the top of my foot. I also don’t remember them looking so bulbous in high school.
This pair, well, what can I say? They’re perfect. Almost perfect. They do give me hot foot because they’re not so breathable. Kind of surprising for a boot at this price point, to be honest. But they do keep my tootsies dry! I have to take them off at the office or my feet start sweating, but outside, in the rain, on days when the high is between thirty-eight and forty-four degrees Fahrenheit? They’re perfect.
These are just for looking at. Some people collect art. Or stamps. Coins. Baseball cards. Little smooth stones. Some things are just for looking at and then putting back in their dust bag, placing inside an archival linen box (with a lid), and gingerly returning to the closet, where they live, underneath those other two just-for-looking-at pairs and to the left of that pair I only wear with the dress from the last-ever Barneys warehouse sale that doesn’t quite fit anymore.
That pair, the ones in the custom-made case with museum-grade glass, inside the dimly lit, temperature-and-humidity-controlled room that requires two-factor authentication to unlock and the donning of a gown, gloves, and booties before handling, is . . . appreciating. They will soon be sold at auction. The proceeds from the sale will be used to rebuild my black-boot nest egg, which has run low of late due to unfavorable market conditions. My words, not my accountant’s, as he has asked me to note here for the record. Agree to disagree.
These I bought because they look sort of like a pair my former roommate once bought, spending, like, an entire paycheck on them, which is probably why she couldn’t make rent that month and asked me to float her—just this one time! Instead, I sold her boots to a consignment shop on St. Marks. I guess she was mad, because a week later she moved out while I was in Galveston at a conference, leaving me stuck with the lease for the rest of the year.
I mean, geez. They’re just boots. ♦
