When I was studying abroad in England, I bought a pair of ankle boots while shopping with a friend one day. They were black with no heel. They had elastic on the side and cute tabs in the back that you could use to pull them on and off.
I wore them out. It was a sad goodbye when I finally retired them. The boots eventually faded from my memory, until about four years ago, when I came across a similar pair. The style was a little different, but they had the same elastic and tab accents. I wore those out. Another sad goodbye was said. Once in a while, I wonder if I will come across another pair.
My wondering days are over. A few nights ago, I was killing time in a museum lobby and picked up a fashion insert from a newspaper. There, on the second page, were THE BOOTS.
And they have a NAME: Chelsea boots.
It’s funny that a pair of shoes can bring me such joy. When I slip on these boots, I’m 22 again, tromping around a sprawling, foreign university campus. I’m exploring nearby Liverpool and York and Dublin, walking down cobblestone streets and strolling in and out of shops. I’m drinking in pubs with adorable names such as the The Fox and Hedgehog or The Shoulder of Mutton. (Guess which of the names is made up.)
I feel very content now, knowing that I will never be without a pair of my beloved boots again.