I have a confession to make. I love boots. And I’m not talking about your run-of-the-mill, admiration love of footwear. No, this love runs deeper. Given the proper economic circumstances, I would spend LOTS of money on boots. Brown boots. Black boots. Red boots. Purple boots. Ankle boots. Knee-length boots. Boots, boots, boots.

Does this surprise you? It surprises me a bit. I readily admit to not caring much about fashion. My preference is a pair of tennis or running shoes, flip-flops, or some sporty sandal with good arch support. I’m all about the comfort. But walk me past a boot sale, and my shoes are coming off faster than a prom dress. I love the feel of the leather. I love the sound of the zipper as I bring it up to enclose my foot in the loving embrace of  footwear fashion. Oh yes, there’s nothing like a good boot!

The other morning, I woke up with this strange urge to wear a pair of boots I hadn’t worn in years. They were an impractical impulse buy one summer, but they were beautiful. I could blame my partner for talking me into them, but she knows I’m a sucker for boots. How could I possibly pass up a pair of purple suede ankle boots that were selling for $10? I couldn’t. I bought them. I overlooked the fact that they had 3 1/2 inch stilletto heels. Who cares? I won’t wear them when I have to walk a lot.

Zipping those boots up, I am transported to another realm. I feel tall. I feel confident. I feel…wobbly. As I struggle to brush my teeth and maintain my balance atop the thin little supports holding me upright, I wonder if I should swap them for my everyday black boots. No, I’ll wear these. I’ll be fine after a few minutes. I teeter my way out of the bathroom, grab my bag, and suddenly wonder if the weight of it will throw me even more off-balance. Nah!

Opening the bedroom door, I meet my first challenge of the day: walking down the slippery, hardwood hallway in shoes that are as slick as ice. Carefully manuevering my way down the hall, using the wall to keep me balanced, I make it to the front door. As I step outside, I know the concrete will be much easier to walk on. But just for good measure, I scrape my feet against the ground, like a cat covering its shit, scuffing the bottom of the shoes in the hopes that this will keep me from slipping when I walk.

By the time I get to my car, my knees and feet are screaming for mercy. They join together in saying, “Bitch, what were you thinking?” With the car started, I proceed to pull out of the driveway. Shit! I need gas. More walking. I manage to fill the tank without doing bodily harm. Getting back into the car, I realize I’d be better off driving without the shoe on. My right foot thanks me as my left foot flips me the bird.

Safely in the parking lot at work, I put my boot back on and steel myself for the walk to my building. As I walk, I can feel the muscles and ligaments of my legs straining against the pressure imposed by these torture devices I have strapped to my feet. With each step, I hear a rhythmic “Fuck” “You,” until I finally reach the threshold of my office. I plop down into my chair and question my sanity.

I take a picture of my boot and post it to Facebook, along with a joke that I must be crazy. My sister tells me the shoes are gorgeous and that it’s the price we women pay for looking good. I refrain from jumping on my soapbox about such societal and cultural roles imposed upon us, only because I’m afraid I’ll break an ankle in the process. I’ve never had strong ankles, and I’ve already turned both of them several times since putting on the boots.

A few minutes later, she tells me to focus on a spot ahead of me when I walk and keep my weight on the balls of my feet. Ha! That is no easy task for someone who’s normal gait resembles a cross between a saunter, a shuffle, and a limp. I decide to limit my trips outside the confines of my office as much as possible. Even sitting at my desk, me feet are on fire. I finally relent and take the shoes off, giving them some much needed relief.

I manage to make it through the day without falling or injuring myself. I also avoided the stairs…why tempt fate. My knees and feet are aching, and the head of my right femur has been slipping in and out of my hip socket all day, tendons and ligaments snapping against bone. Now I remember why I don’t wear high heels often…too much pressure on joints that have seen their share of injuries. Both boots come off as soon as I’m in my car for the drive home. Walking in the door, my partner looks at me, then my bare feet, then the boots in my hand.

“You haven’t worn real heels in two years and you decide to start again with those? What were you thinking?”

I laughed and said that I was overcome with an urge to wear them. As I shuffle down the hall in my socks, I vow to wear my loafers tomorrow, if only to give my feet a break from what I just put them through. Today, I’m in my trusty black boots with the wide, thick heel. The trusty boots I’ve had so long, I don’t actually remember how long I’ve had them. I get them repaired every year because I love these boots that much. I know I will return to my other boots soon. Their draw is too strong. Their leather, too enticing.

Besides, I don’t want them to feel like they were just some one-night stand, tossed aside when I want to go back to the footwear equivalent of a spouse. One boot whore in the house is enough.