New Boots

It became clear that I needed to invest in a nice, comfy, stylin’ pair of cowboy boots if I planned to survive another football season in (and around) Texas.

I searched the world (okay, I went to three stores) over and found a beautiful pair of black and brown old gringos and had them custom fit to my high arched yet freakishly short and narrow feet. Half a paycheck later, my boots and I were inseparable.

While wearing my still new boots at the Missouri Tigers’ Stadium I was intoxicated.

Due to the intoxication I tumbled down a small set of six steps. It’s possible there were only three steps but I was seeing double. My boots and I will never know.

The stumble wasn’t too bad: I managed to stay upright, but there was arm flailing and excessive spastic movement.

I still feel shamed by what I did next: I blamed the unfortunate footing on the staircase on my new boots.

How quickly I turned on the Old Gringos that I had so lovingly pulled on just seven hours and a belly full of booze earlier!

“NEW BOOTS!” I squawked, still flapping my arms to keep balance. “I’M NOT DRUNK! I FELL BECAUSE I HAVE NEW BOOTS ON!” People were starting to stare. “NEW BOOTS! I’M SOBER! NEW BOOTS.” Tonya Harding had NOTHING on me.

Oh how the mighty had (quite literally) fallen…

Don’t feel too bad for the boots, though. No bad deed goes un-punished. They eventually won the war a few weeks later, when they crippled me in Lubbock, causing me to shout at an innocent young co-worker for not carrying me across a busy street and sit in the lap of strangers, simply so I wouldn’t have to stand up anymore.

My boots and I have made up. But I will not cross them again.