It is now officially the time of year when I get to pull two of my favorite possessions out from their summer resting place beneath the bed, and display them proudly on the rubber mat by the front door.
My enormous winter boots.
They are huge, and puffy, and have no laces — you simply step into them. Then, later, like the comfiest possible military-grade foam foot trap, it takes five minutes and some Cirque du Soleil contortions to get back out. They are black and silver, with tactical-looking clips and cinch straps that do nothing, and a fabric rim around the calf that ties shut and works very well to keep the snow out. I inevitably forget to close this flap when removing snow from our car, and I end up doing the world’s hardest yoga move in our driveway, trying to pull off one boot while jumping in a circle on the other leg, so I can shake out the melting snowball I somehow managed to get wedged down by my ankle.
My boots are warm, awesome, and look like something one might wear while visiting the moon. I love them.
I also did not want to buy them.
Today’s poem is technically a spring poem, but I was reminded of it the other day, when, for the first time this season, I pulled on my beloved boots:
Putting Away My Winter Boots
I am sorry I insisted, when you bought these winter boots, that my ratty old sneakers did the job just fine. I have now spent a happy season pretending to be an arctic explorer whenever I went to get the mail. You were so right. I was so wrong.
It’s a season of thanks here in the U.S., and I hope this newsletter finds you with many things to be grateful for. I’m thankful, as ever, for Petra Hernandez. For many reasons, one of which is her excellent taste in fine winter footwear.
Chat again soon,
~ A
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We don't get snow here but we get rain and I love my rain boots. I stomp in puddles whenever I can.
Piercing, Adam.