Although I am not a shoe hound, I do have two pair of low black boots and two pair of knee high brown ones. You'd think I'd have mixed it up a bit, but they were pretty much sale-driven purchases.
Despite the fact I don't expect us to last much longer and, of course, I'll discuss that later, going out with Luke has made me dig out shoes. A year ago, I was very unhappy, felt like a cow, and could care less about footwear. I've been a bit more motivated this year.
Most of my shoes are unceremoniously stored under my bed and my son dives under there with a flashlight for me periodically to fetch "black with heel" or "black without heel but with buckle" depending on the occasion. A week ago, as I was digging through my clothes trying to find something, anything that fit and matched, I began pulling out the tall brown boots to evaluate them. Specifically, I was trying to coordinate an outfit for church last Sunday. Couldn't look too much like a harlot or a heathen.
I held up one of each type of tall brown boot and asked my son which one he preferred. It was so evident to him, there was no question.
"Just look at them, Ma," he said, incredulous that I didn't already know. "This one, um," as he pointed to the mock croc skin, "looks like death and isn't the point of church life?"
Where does he get this stuff?
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