I feel like I’m always crushing on a pair of boots.
Boots are home, comfort and security for me.
My boots have an average life span of five years.
After a good five years, they die in my closet; I watch them die.
I can’t imagine throwing them out.
Who does that?
I spend good money on them; let me watch them die.
I was staring at my closet one morning and wondering, “How much of this shit do I actually wear?” Still haven’t worn that copperish colored motorcycle jacket (so much prettier than what you’re currently imagining). It’s been over two years and I still haven’t left my house in it. Money hangs in my closet while I bitch about hating all of my clothes, tisk tisk. A garment has to really be something special for me to keep it around for any length of time. When I love something, I REALLY LOVE IT. I will wear it 2-3 times a week.
Vintage Band Graphics.
I love what I love.
Let us all love what we love!
However, I can be very flighty with my clothes. Love it in the store but ready to re-sell it two days later. Some things stick, some things don’t. I loaded up 25% of my clothes into black trash bags, kind of felt bad, like I was hurting their feelings. With confidence, I scurried across the parking lot to Plato’s Closet. I sell to Plato’s Closet at least four times a year…
Like a snob, I submit my trash bags thinking, “Surely, they are going to pay me $5,738 for all of my awesome shit.”
“Jodi, your buy is ready for you to review.”
“We are willing to offer you $54.50 for your items, would you like to accept?”
Couldn’t make it $55?
Always heartbreaking to know you’ll never get what you paid for 25% of your closet. What a tragic beating for women who like to shop…
As the lady is counting out my cash, I turned to my left, there they were.
SON OF A BITCHIN’ BOOTS. Tony Lamas. Vaquero style. Snip toe. Wingtip metal accents. Authentic stitching. High-rise. Muted gray.
Like a desperate moron, I shouted, “MAM! Are these for sale?!” I flipped the dangling neon price tag to find out that they were FORTY-FIVE DOLLARS!!! Y’all, these boots were worth a minimum of three hundred in their prime. I returned forty-five dollars cash to the lady at the counter and walked out with my dream boots.
I was high.
High as a kite.
Thanking the boot gods.
Grinning for the universe.
Bury me in these.