Recently I spent far too long pining over a pair of black, over the knee boots. Screen shots of said boots from multiple angles filled my camera roll and I had excitedly told everyone all about them. Versatile. Classic. Stylish. These boots were going to CHANGE MY LIFE and I couldn’t bloody wait. I had even made space in my wardrobe, I was committed.
Little did I know that trying these boots on would be up there in terms of embarrassment with the time my netball skirt came undone and flew off whilst umpiring in front of a lot of people. That the experience would be marred by embarrassment and trauma, not the level of joy and new boot smugness that I had expected, not even close.
I will admit that before trying said boots on, I was a tad nervous because I have rather large calves. Many a time I have convinced myself that they are in fact disproportionate to my body. As well as being large, my calves are also strong. My now husband, but previous annoying boy at school once unintentionally made me cry by commenting on how large my calves were, apparently they bring all the boys to the yard.
Well they may bring all the boys to the yard but they most definitely do not suit long, black, over the knee boots because they got stuck on my legs. Very stuck. Did I mention that they were pull on boots? Not a helpful zipper in sight. I’m having heart palpitations just writing this.
Despite all the warning signs that trying said boots on was possibly definitely a bad idea, I persisted because fashun. The only good thing to happen but probably a negative as I reflect on the whole experience was that they had my size, a 42, and that never happens.
As the shop assistant handed over the first boot to try, alarm bells immediately started ringing. “The legs look very small,” I said trying desperately to sound casual and calm, but actually beginning to panic internally. “They’re actually quite roomy because the back is neoprene, have a feel,” she replied handing over the boot and showing me how the fabric at the back stretched.
These boots really are a dream I thought to myself, montages of future me looking ah-mazing flashing through my head. I’m sad to say that this is where things took a turn for the worst. At this point another customer entered the store and the shop assistant left me and the boots alone. And things got ugly quickly.
The warning signs of impending doom were clear as soon as I tried to shove, shove being the key word, my legs into the boots. Much like trying to squeeze into skinny jeans, I shimmied and shook my legs into the boots with a level of force generally only reserved for trying to open jars of salsa.