Let me tell you about these boots

For most of my life, I was a girly girl. Long hair, makeup, high heels: the works.

(Also submissive, guilt-riddled, and emotionally simmering. Coincidence?)

But things have shifted over the last decade as my emotional health has improved.

(Can't recommend the love of a good person enough.)

So let me tell you about these boots. 

They're red. 

They're chunky. 

They're Doc Martens; a brand I'd heard of, but never coveted, and a look I'd nod at on other people, but never considered for myself. 

But a few weeks ago, a nearby town was having a put-all-your-junk-on-the-curb-and-we'll-take-it-away-no-questions-asked weekend, so Declan and I drove around to see if we could find anything for our new/old house since we gave so much away before moving cross country. We did find a few useful things, like a rollermajig for the garden hose we've yet to purchase, an old rocking chair we're using as a plant stand, and some paving stones. 

We pulled over to look at some furniture which had great curb appeal but disappointed close up, and discovered a few bins full of miscellany. Including these boots. 

Brand new. No dirt on the soles. No scuffs. Pristine. 

I didn't know what they were, didn't stop to investigate too closely. They looked about my size and seemed very well made, so I just popped them in the car, and off we drove in search of the next bit of treasure.

(One of the things I've learned about Maine life is the importance of weather-appropriate footwear and coats.)

Back home, I discovered they fit, and did a bit of googling to sleuth out what they were. 

(Then I turned them upside down and read the brand imprinted on the sole. Doh.)

Not only did they fit, but they were comfortable. 


Protective, like if a motorcycle drove over my foot, my toes would be just fine.

Heavy, but not in an "I'm going to pull your feet off" way. More of an "I'm ready if I need to kick someone's ass today." 

Plus, they're red. 


The last red pair I owned were faux-leather 4-inch stilettoes, which I wore with linebacker-shouldered blazers to my corporate job in the 1990s. They gave me a sense of power in the only currency I knew at the time.

(I'm not dissing stilettoes or those who wear them. I just recognize the layers of fucked-up that went along with my wearing them. I'd still stalk around in a pair once in a while if my poor gnarled feet were capable of contorting into the shape of Barbie's.)

I've been wanting a pair of red shoes for a few years now. Not high heels, though a bit of lift would be required. Not sneakers, because they were never really my thing. I had a hazy vision of retro Mary Janes, or embroidered patchwork Oxfords that looked like they were crafted from pokeberry-dyed squirrel hide by a bearded recluse in the mountains of Georgia.

But nope. Instead, I got these boots.

Gorgeous boots.

Strong boots.

Superhero boots.

Boots that say "look at me!" but not like those cheap tottering heels did. 

I've worn them out in the world twice now, and they make me feel playful and powerful, their leather tongues proclaiming "I don't give a damn what you think, but admit it: aren't we cute?"

These boots are pure fucking magic.

And they were a gift from a universe who listened to my unspoken cries for shoes, glorious shoes, and knew better than I ever could about what kind my soul needed.