there is a perfect pair of boots of which i dream sometimes.

this is not some *hypothetical* perfect boot that i am imagining to exist out there in the ether, like some mythical 'mr. right' for whom i am sitting here, alone, wistful and pining away.

i am not the pining type.

this was a real pair of boots, i know they exist. i know where they are. i touched them, even. i smelled the leather. i didn't try them on, though; there was no use torturing ourselves about it.

you know what i mean? the attraction was there, nearly electric in its intensity. we knew we belonged together, but alas, the price was prohibitive. it was not to be, my money being presently tied up in other investments. it wasn't them, it was me. it was nothing personal, i just wasn't ready to make that kind of committment.

we tried not to be melodramatic about it. we didn't drag it out. we acknowledged our connection, and turned our faces forward, moved forth into our seperate futures, no regrets. it had to be this way. i sang 'next lifetime' under my breath and marched on.

(music up.....
....end scene ROTFL)

i am not given to this kind of behavior with little cause. it doesn't happen often and when it does, i take it seriously. there was only *one* other pair of sole mate shoes with which i had an equally dramatic & similarly doomed relationship.

it was five years ago, and i still remember them vividly. it was in london... a city full of mist and cobblestones and strangely angled streets and much mystery. and amazing shoes.

this pair was an unassuming oxford... the sole perhaps a trifle thicker than classic. perhaps the toe turned up a little, rounded? reminding one of chaplin, crib shoes, elves? the leather was matte & black, so soft it looked delicately weathered. the cut work was hand-stitched. with *brown* sitches, gleaming against the shoe like old pennies.

they were so beautiful, i just had to stop and stare. introduced myself through the shop window at first, being shy, but moving in soon enough, pulled inexorably to them, my earth-tone-addicted flower child self twanging in response to a nudge from an inner dandy rearing its dapper head.

what would i do with a pair of english oxfords? i'd have to rock purple organza many-tiered skirts and denim jackets torn off at the waist and buttoned tight over antique camisoles. i'd have to wear turquoise and white, and have embroidery at my hemlines. i'd have to abandon my many favorite t-shirts and step outside of the cotton jersey/denim family to clothe myself. eeek!

plus i was in london, in college, and had my first credit card ever. i was still cringing off the joke i'd played on myself with the exchange rate and a pair of buster brown-esque wooden platform sandals (which worked with my tshirt aesthetic, let me tell you, but freaked me out when i saw the statement. those were HOW MUCH in american money? LOL)

with the sandals, see, i could continue dressing like i did in second grade, which is *really* my aesthetic preference. all my fashion fantasies aside, my inner child is skipping down sesame street in bellbottom blue corduroys and a striped turtleneck. it is risk-free to follow her there.

but hand-stitched english oxfords... that's changing the game a little. that means i was going back to atlanta and completely re-examining my wardrobe. sorry, i should have written 'wardrobe' in quotes. as in, "so-called wardrobe." english oxfords meant making whole different level of committment to the act of dressing myself.

was i ready? could i do it?

puh-leeze. i dropped those shoes like a hot potato and bought a pair of british adidas.

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