Clothing and confidence, and the lack of both.
I am not a clothing type of person. Well, that’s not entirely true: I love clothes, and love the look of them, the idea of them, the browsing and putting together of outfits. That said, I have very very poor self-esteem, some body dysmorphia, and a keen sense of laziness that makes most outfits beyond my reach. I am, truly, a jeans and t-shirt kind of person.
I have been lucky enough to never had much reason to dress outside of this: I work from home now, and the jobs I had in the past were in rather insular office environments, or in production companies where we were encouraged to be “quirky,” as though the lot of us were zoo animals for the upper management to show off from time to time. I am a connoisseur of witty t-shirts, of fabulously-printed shoes, and knees-socks in many colors and patterns.
Overall, though, I tend to wear clothes because it’s frowned upon to go in public without (though, for that matter, I’d probably at the very least wear a nice, comfy, shapeless sack if everyone else was toddling about in the nude. Crazy issues, et al.). I am, for instance, currently in a pair of jeans and a stretched-out black shirt, since I had to run carpool today. I look rather unremarkable, and I care little.
This all said: I own a pair of fantastic boots.
I’d never been a boot person. Outside the whole dressing for comfort, I hate everything sort of mindset, I always found boots to be inconvenient at best, annoying as hell and hobbling at worst. Despite being a native Coloradan, since I outgrew my 80s moon boots as a child, I really have never owned a pair of boots– most of the time, I just do my best to step around snow, rather than through it, or avoid the outdoors altogether (a new parenthetical I really, really hate the outdoors. Maybe we’ll discuss that in another therapy sometime). I like looking at shoes, but wearing them is a pain, and I kick them off the instant I’m indoors. Boots always seemed to be more troublesome, involving sitting and pulling and arranging and propping and, being as I am positing myself as the laziest person in the world, that was not my gig.
And then I bought a dress. And a pair of boots.
These boots, I’ll have you know, are knee-high. They zip up the inside of my calf. They have A HEEL. This is everything I’ve ever been against in my life. And I love them.
Generally, I feel as though I need a place to go wearing this sort of thing. These boots are too much for just sitting around the house! Alas, being as I am lazy, and somewhat awkward, going out is pretty low on my list of activities, somewhere around picking up garbage on the side of the highway, but above root canals. I have several close friends who understand this about me, and so my outings are limited to a couple times a month, and generally don’t require me to do much more than brush my hair.
But the boots!
Yes, the boots. They seem too feisty to belong to me, too longing for the world to sit on the shelf under my ever-growing mountain of laundry I never manage to put away. And, so, I’ve started wearing them, under my jeans (another aside: I have recently learned that not only do I wear the wrong jeans for my body type, the wrong color for everyone on earth, and certainly the wrong jeans for these boots. I say: fuck you).
Worn this way, I am given a whole half inch on my height which, when you’re as short as I am, is like being given a pair of stilts, and cover my calves from the harsh Colorado winds. Though not on display, the boots seem happier this way, a subtle sort of bite that they do not get, quietly mourning the sunshine behind closet doors. I’ve found I quite like them, and pull them on often.
I don’t know that they give me any real measure of confidence, and so I don’t know that I’ve fulfilled even half my title. At any rate, I’ll at least leave you with what my doctor said, as I took them off to get myself horribly weighed recently: “those are some fancy boots.”
Yes. Yes, they are.