Foot in the door fail.

Uh, yeah I’ve been on a bit of a tear. But that’s not what’s interesting. What’s interesting is that I was planning what to write in this post a week ago – it’s true, I procrastinate – and now the tables have suddenly turned. What once was – is no more. What I believed in – has been run aground on the rocks of reality! This is personal shit.

Lets start at the beginning. So sometimes, the shoe offerings of a certain season, or even entire year hold no allure – it’s a drought of the driest kind – a deep unrelenting parchment of pastiness that seems as if it can never been quenched. Then, someone does a rain dance to the shoe gods and it’s like a deluge. Feast or famine baby! And let me tell you – the feast is just as much curse  as caper.

So I wasn’t expecting to buy anything this winter, and oops in October or whatever I bought those Dieppa Restrepo loafers – but that was going to be it. Then long story short I went to NYC and got a ridiculous deal on a pair of Frye motorcycle boots (not my fault), then I was back in TO and was sick of buying Christmas presents for EVERYONE else, so got myself a pair of clogs (small, little clogs, half a shoe! not even a whole shoe!) and after that my New Years resolution was like, really, enough already, and then I promptly bought these crazed Spanish riding boot type things that were ESSENTIAL because I didn’t have any brown boots. Of that particular ilk. And these had buckles. See?

Palanco. For the noted horeswoman.

So fine, lost the plot a wee bit, but refused to collapse in a heap of shame. Instead I roiled joyfully in a heap of  fresh leather! Yes! And to boot (ha), I had a new topic for my blog – because it’s all fodder baby! I was going to write about how my winter shoe collection has this sort of true harmony as a whole –  while my wardrobe is a discordant mishmash of pilling cardigans  and awkward-lengthed skirts. The clothes now the poor cousin, almost desperate, faintly grasping – sad, dejected, depleted and given only a solitary potato for supper. Forced to sleep in the woodshed around back, a cold, hard, palette of straw for a bed.

BUT I didn’t get to write this post of genius DID I?? Because I was waylaid by a much more DEVASTATING turn of events that of COURSE has to be recorded here – if not for posterity – then for pure cathartic purposes. Le sigh.

So I have this boyfriend.  And I have lots of shoes. And he has none. In the face of such challenges – we refuse to  give up our love. We’re basically like Romeo & Juliet.   How do we make it work?. Well, boyf has always been supportive of me doing what I’ve had to do – though he did raise an eyebrow marginally during this latest escapade. And I in turn NEVER harass him about his shoes – which considering my bent – makes me SALT OF THE EARTH and also THE BEST GIRLFRIEND ALIVE.

However, this past weekend I finally got him to consent and go with me to Get Outside to look at some boots. I thought maybe a Blundstone?

Blundstone. Speak of salt of the earth.

So reasonably priced? Goes with everything, all season, wear well? Anyone? Or maybe we could dream bigger – a Frye, a Red Wing?

Red Wing. Are we not to dream then?

Here’s the thing, he never goes into stores, he never tries anything on, he never buys anything! So this was a bit of coup – but I was playing it cool, because we’d been building up to this, me almost undetectably programming him over the past month to accept my suggestion of a boot purchase, softly steering him towards my own ends.

So we get in there – he does the briefest of tours. And then is like “I’m not going to try anything on.” There is one word – and that word is crushing. I LITERALLY was close to tears, I almost stamped by foot in frustration- except I felt so deflated and couldn’t summon the energy. Plus, we were about to have a full on domestic at one of my favourite shoe stores – and even in my borderline hysterical state – I wouldn’t sully that relationship for all the world.

And so to summarize, the lesson here is you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink. And then when he doesn’t drink you can’t have full mental shutdown and take it personally and then execute a stone cold freeze out that lasts the time it takes to chug a beer – in an effort to revive one’s spirits – at the Horseshoe Tavern across the street.

If  one was self aware – which one wishes one wasn’t because it’s a pain in the ass – I think I got so carried away with the shoe buying this past month – that I thought I could continue the seamless accrual of footwear with my boyf as proxy. But he stymied me. And isn’t’ that what all healthy relationships are about? Being stymied? Achem.

So the epilogue reads,  my boyf remains unshod, my tear is officially over, and now I have to connive of another plan to get that man in some boots.