When I was young - five? - I would drag the toes of my sneakers on the ground. I liked the sound, I think. It wore through them quickly, and my mom hated it. "I'm going to make you wear steel toed boots," she would threaten. Yeah.
Don't throw me in that brier patch.
They take some getting used to, heavy boots. Takes some practice to steer them. They swing your foot a little further and widen your stride. Not for nothing, the fairy tale trope of seven-league boots.
I get mine at the flea market. It takes a few shows, some jumping up and down on a concrete floor, to break down the last guy's wear patterns and imprint my own.
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And me? Now? I want my own steel-toed boots. How else can you stride through life?
I love you, baby.
I do.
My Gia bought a used pair of Frye motorcycle boots through e-bay or something. Spent more for the shipping than she did for the boots, but they are pretty sweet.
Boots make the outlaw.
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