An Ode to…Bad-Ass Boots

After the last two posts being so serious, I figured I needed to write one celebrating one of my favorite things in life: boots. Some girls wear “screw-me” pumps. I wear “screw-you” boots.

Boots say it all: don’t mess with me. Every buckle, zipper, and stud is like a self-esteem pill you take via foot-skin osmosis. I’m not talking about sleek little suede numbers with tassels at the ankles and flower appliques. I mean black pleather, reinforced, withstand-a-nuclear-holocaust boots. Preferably with inch-thick soles and neon laces.

My favorite pair of boots is a beat-up pair of biker boots I bought in New York for my birthday. They’re flat and wide around the calf, with a buckle around the ankle and scuffed toes. They’ve carried me everywhere–I wore them the day I became a teenager, the day I started high school, the day I got my heart broken for the first time. And through it all, they’ve reminded me of the bad-assed-ness that lies within me, and carried me through the times where I feel like I don’t have any bad-assed-ness left. They’re my security blankets, and I can’t imagine life without them.

Well, okay, I could, but it would be empty and depressing and my feet would be very, very cold.

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