I Told The Butt Doctor I was In Love With You

After a great period of intense panic, yesterday I found the box containing all of my winter boots--not like snow boots, but you know, cute leather boots that you're not embarrassed to own or wear in public. A minor crisis had erupted at my house when I realized I couldn't find any of them after we moved. I knew they were all in the same box, and I took solace in the fact that wherever they were, they had each other, but that did not put them on my feet, and given the fact that my packing habits make as much sense as Bjork's fashion selections, I held out no hope of finding them before Easter. I decided to look anyway, and I started in the Hall of Unopened Boxes, or as it's better known, the basement. I plowed through hiking gear, boxes of books, and finally came upon my old footlocker from summer camp. In this most reasonable of places to pack winter footwear, I found my boots. I found all three pairs of boots, along with four scarves, a pair of pajama pants, two mortar-and-pestle sets (one for emergencies), and eight soup mugs. I can't WAIT to see where we packed the baby!

Today's outfit was planned around my favorite camel boots, as an expression of the sheer joy that overcame me when I finally found them. The knee-high-boots-with-above-the-knee-skirt look is big at my office, which I guess beats out the striped-clown-pants-with-beaded-tunic look that was big at my old office, so I threw on a tan wool skirt and called it art. I feel like it's really easy to cross the line from "winter chic" to "winter sex for sale" with the boots-and-skirt look, but I maintain that it's impossible to look slutty in anything wool, unless they start making assless chaps out of wool (never say never, people). So I threw on my coat and walked out the door, feeling confident that I at least looked this side of colorblind today. I had forgotten about Roger.

Roger is an attorney at my office who has a strange and perplexing obsession with my clothes, which is strange and perplexing because my morning routine consists of trying to determine which of the pieces of clothing I've meticulously stored on the bedroom floor look least crumpled. He's always telling me how nice I look, but then continuing the dialogue with detailed questions about where I get my clothes, how I know what looks good together, and other questions to which the best answer is "magic." By the way, Roger is married--to a woman who is a colorectal surgeon, which is always the first thing he tells people about her, and which I find endlessly hilarious. I think if you're not going to just throw out "butt doctor," then a simple "she's a surgeon" would suffice. I knew that the first Running of the Boots of the season was going to spark a reaction of epic proportions in Roger, but I really wanted to wear them today, and if I'm not going to let a "firm Internet use policy" stop me from blogging, then I am certainly not going to let a "middle-aged voluntarily bald attorney" stop me from the glee of boots.

Roger noticed my boots first thing, natch, while I was in the kitchen making my first (of seven) cup of tea for the day, and his reaction was everything you'd expect in watching a five-year-old boy discover a BB rifle under the Christmas tree. "WOW, your boots are AWESOME!!!" he threw at me. "Thanks," I said. "These are my favorites." "I can see why!" he grinned back at me. This was starting to get weirder. Steep, my little tea bags, steep, and free me from the prison of the kitchen! "You know what look I really love?" he asked. I resisted the urge to say, "bondage?" and let myself be led down this path. "What?" I asked.

"Stiletto boots. I just go crazy for those!"

What, exactly, is the right answer to that? "That's awesome; thanks for letting me know! I'll be sure to wear those tomorrow."

Or maybe, "On you, or on me?"

Or, "I sooooo wanted a pair of those this season, but Whores For Less was out of my size."

Regardless of what would have been the best approach, my overwhelming tendency to fire off whatever pops into my head went into overdrive, and before I could even spellcheck it, what flew out of my mouth was, "Those make you look like you're selling sex for crack."

The most unexpected climax of the day? Roger looked at me, all but winked, and said, "Right," with a little half-grin, the grin that precedes lip-licking. At that point, I learned that it is, in fact, possible to run at rather great speeds in knee-high boots, as I careened back to the safety of my office.

I feel like now is maybe the point where I should set some kind of boundaries in our relationship. I'm just not sure if that boundary should be, "no, we are never going on a date," or, "no, you can't ever borrow my boots."