Lately, I've been super bossy about all the things we're going to get rid of in preparation for spring, which officially is here. Of course, as far as my mental trash can goes most of the junk belongs to the only other person in this house who is not me. Because all my stuff is awesome and organized. And none of it takes up too much room (see overflowing shelves of home magazines for sarcasm).
Anyway, I was just about to hop on my soap box about the lesser merits of old shoes and how no one who isn't a boat captain needs five different pairs of loafers when "the only other person in this house who is not me" immediately called attention to "my boots."
You know the ones. They are so comfy, so omniscient, so indelibly tied to your everyday routine of DDL (dog, Dunkin', looking at stuff) that further description beyond "my boots" is wholly unnecessary.
"Where are my boots?" I might call out from half way underneath the bed as I search desperately for what have become my sartorial security blankets. And even my dog Miles knows which ones I mean. Most likely he's been sleeping, chewing or farting on them since I pulled them off last.
I wish I could say that my great great grandmother gave me these before imparting some ancient wisdom concerning the overwhelming power of suede fringe, which will never in a million years go out of style. But alas, the story of "my boots" is hardly that deep. I bought them on sale a few years ago because Rachel Zoe said so on TV. And La Zoe did not steer me wrong. They worked with everything from the skinny jean to the flouncy skirt to the daisy duke.
Now after miles of errands and ambling about Washington, DC it's about damn time for them to retire. Whatever support they offered in the arch category went the way of the rubber soles. They remind me of a verse in The Wiz classic "Ease on Down the Road":
"Pick your left foot up, when your right foot is down
Come on legs keep moving and don't you lose no ground
You just keep on keepin' on the road that you choose
Don't you give up walking cause you gave up shoes."
I almost wish I'd given up on them earlier, when they were still in their prime. At least then they could've gone to a good home. I imagine a 16-year-old wearing them in a school play about awesome boots. Now instead of a huge starring role, they'll end up chopped up into itty bitty pieces for some hippie DIY moccasin project -- just as soon as I figure out which one of my faves to donate them to.
So while I waste hours researching eco-exchange clothing projects (and more importantly new boots), let me know which more than gently used item you'll be giving up this season to make room for the rest of the year's junk.