tony lamas || a girl and her boots

Boots are priority.

 
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.

 Sheer Black.
Jaded Flannels.
Rendered Denim.
Faded Black.
Mean Boots.
Wilted Fabrics.
Vintage Band Graphics.
Aged Denim.
Black Leather.
Eclectic Kimonos.
Lengthy Silhouettes.
Black.
Hippie Threads.  

 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?”

 Bitch, what?
Couldn’t make it $55?
Fifty cents?

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…

 Must
Not
Be
So
Impulsive
Jo.

 You
Do
Not
Have
As
Much
Money
As
You
Think
Idiot.

 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.

 

Jo