Texas has ruined me. I now have a burning desire for cowboy boots. I don’t think it so much ruined me as pushed me over the edge of a boot fetish I’ve had since childhood. In my baby book there was a page on ‘What I Want to Be When I Grow Up’ and my Mother wrote, “Wendy would like to be a garbage man or a go-go dancer.”
This is the God’s honest truth. Apparently she was embarrassed with my choice in professions when I was three, because she felt the need to also write a lengthy explanation about my wanting to be a garbage man or a go-go dancer because I was fascinated by the boots they wear. I do remember wanting a pair of vinyl go-go boots passionately, but not so much about the garbage man thing.
Everyone in Texas has bad-ass boots. I saw a little old lady at the What-a-Burger in Houston with the sweetest pair of red cowboy boots ever. They had glittery insets and she rocked ’em. The fever took hold of me at the Circle Bar in Ozona. Everyone was wearing cowboy boots. A very distinguished older gentleman had a beautiful pair of silver toe caps that matched the tassels on his hat. I was mesmerized.
“I need a pair of cowboy boots.”
“To put on my hands and wonder why I can’t hold a pencil. Gah. What do you think I want them for?”
“You’ve never really been the cowboy boot type, babe.”
“I love boots. I have tons of boots.”
“I know this. I paid for a lot of those boots. None of them are cowboy boots.”
“Well I really need some.”
“Like right now? Today?”
“You’re gonna buy me cowboy boots today? You’re too good to me.”
“No. I’m not buying cowboy boots today. They’re expensive as hell.”
“I know. The pair I want is $230.”
“That sounds like a Christmas present.”
“Good because my cousin already bought them for me. She gets a %40 discount where she works and you only paid $175 for them.”
“Well Merry Freakin’ Christmas.”
“You’re too good to me.”
“Apparently without even trying.”
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