I spent this past weekend at Westfield looking for some nice boots to replace my very worn ones. To be fair, they have stood up to months of dragging around 100kgs, and they had done their job quite well.
Unfortunately all the shops were clearing out old stock to make room for summer sandals and sky high heels – so my hopes for something decent were pretty low. At this time of year the only boots available are in a women’s size 15, or looked like this. No. Thank. You.
As a delicate size 5 girl (only in the shoe department), I can always find a gorgeous little pair of something spectacular to cheer myself up after a bout of failed clothes shopping 😦 UNLESS it is Boot Shopping. Boot shopping sucks.
The problem is if the shoe fits, then the calf bit is crumpled down around my ankle, or only zips up 2 centimeters and I look like I’m taking inspiration from this woman. The alternative is, if the calf fits, the shoe part looks like I am a three year old trying on my fathers shoes. Either option does not provide satisfaction for this young lady.
In the past I have been known to get my own way. Please don’t misunderstand, I am not one of those awful women waving their Louis Vuitton handbag around screaming at sales assistants, however I DO believe that if you want me to spend $300+ in your shop, then you gotta work for it!
So, I walked into Wittner at Westfield, and asked the 12 year old assistant (who actually looked a little scared for her life when I zeroed in on her to serve me) for all of her flat, black, leather boots, 1. that aren’t too butch* and 2. that will fit around my “power calves”. Good luck Miss.
The poor young thing trotted off on her stick thin legs to find the un-find-able. She came back with 2 pairs. Both in size 6. Fail. But, because of her efforts, I agreed to try them on. As I suspected, they didn’t go up past my ankle. Or cankle as she was thinking. Bitch. The other pair were the ‘pull on’ style. Or they would be if I wasn’t so voluptuous. I started the challenge. Right foot in. Calf leather bunched up around the cankle area, but I persevered. Then the most horrifying thing happened. The once shy and naive pre-teen assistant decided to help. NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!
She wedged her fake, too long, french manicured fingernails between the expensive leather and my sweaty, fat calves. And then…. she tugged and pulled and heaved trying to pull those damn boots up. I could see the sweat beads pooling on her over-foundation-ed forehead. This girl was really earning her $12.50 an hour. By this time, a small crowd had gathered and I am sure someone took a photo on their iPhone (My better half says that there was not a crowd and no-one took a picture – but I was the one in the war zone. I was the one experiencing the embarrassment and physical pain.).
After about 45 minutes (or 1 minute, if you believe my better half’s version of events), the boots were as ‘on’ as they were going to get. I nervously stood up and looked at myself in the mirror.
No. Just no.
No to the muffin top I had developed below my knee. No to the insistence of the torturous teen that the “leather would stretch”. Lets be honest; the leather was not even that taut when it was on the cow. And definitely no to going through this every morning before work.
But, perhaps from embarrassment, perhaps because my feet had swollen and I wouldn’t have been able to pry the boots off without the assistance of the fire brigade or perhaps because all of my blood had pooled in the areas that weren’t squeezed into those leather devils, I waddled to the counter and woozily handed over my hard earned credit card and paid for those suckers.
I’m returning them tomorrow. Promise.
*NOTHING against girls who love girls, I am just a little more “Lipstick Lesbian” than “Stone Cold Dyke”.