Black Cherry Goat Hides

I know that I am not supposed to be concerned with what other people do or with what they think about me. I have been taught that such things are simply none of my business. My experience reminds me that when I care too much about what others think about me (either for the good or for the bad) that I become unhealthily tied to their opinions, many of which are frankly more unbalanced than my own. But as the slow learning and quick forgetting human being that I am I often do care (too much) about what other people think about me. Because of this I have spent much of my life trying to be as cool as possible in hopes that people will like me, that they might even love me, and that they will as a result of such attachments be less likely to leave me to the cold winds of that solitary existence that at my core I fear the most.

Thank goodness for cowboy boots. Nothing makes me feel cooler (to be read "lovable") than wearing a pair of nice boots. When I wear them I feel taller, I feel more handsome and manly, and most importantly I feel like that cool guy that everyone wants to know. Please understand that I am neither a cowboy nor am I trying to look like one, though I have absolutely nothing against cowboys or their rugged look. I do not wear a western hat and I do not own a big rodeo belt buckle. I wear Levis not Wranglers. The look that I am going for is one that fits more with my punkish upbringing, a rock and roll look that requires a black t-shirt, jeans, and dark sunglasses.

My love of boots is fairly new (I did not own my first pair until I was almost forty). It was perfectly obvious to me growing up in Southern California that cowboy boots were the farthest thing from cool. I would not have been caught dead in anything that seemed western. The only boots that I owned as a teenager were a pair of black leather Beatle boots that I bought on a crazed road trip to Tijuana when I was seventeen years old. In fact when I moved to Texas more than twenty-five years ago I joked with my friends that if they ever caught me wearing cowboy boots or a big western hat that they were to immediately kidnap me and take me "home" to the reasonableness of Los Angeles. Funny how things change.

The first cowboy boots that I bought were a beautiful pair of black calf skins with intricate white stitching and very pointed toes. I loved every little thing about those boots. If I was wearing long pants it was simply given that I would be wearing those boots. I even remember times (when I was drinking too much of course) that it did not really matter if the pants were long or short, or even whether they were on my body or rumpled on the floor. I wore those boots until the knuckle of one of my toes finally rubbed a hole in the top of the leather, something that true cowboys have told me should not have happened. I remember looking down one day to see a piece of my white sock ballooning out of the front of one of my boots. I was heartbroken, knowing that I would have to retire those boots for good.

A few months ago Minnie bought a beautiful pair of black cherry goat hide Luchesses for me for my birthday. Now that the weather is beginning to cool down here in central Texas (by which I mean it is now only in the mid-90s instead of mid-100s) I have started to wear these boots more often. I actually look forward to putting them on in the morning. I love the feel of the boots' thick leather when I first grab hold of them in the morning. I love the coolness of the leather against my skin when I slide them on at the beginning of the day. I love the way that the boots smell, that clean unmistakable wholesome scent that only new leather can give off. I love the solid sense of security and support that I feel when I stand up after putting them on. I truly could not have dreamed of a better present and I thank Minnie for her thoughtful and generous gift to me.

It is unclear to my seemingly schizophrenic mind whether or not I wear my boots because of some true and unrequited love for them and the way that they make me feel, or because some part of my recovering mind still desperately desires the approval of others. I suspect that the truth is that I am motivated in no small degree by both. This is the type of question that my busy brain will often attempt to answer, that is until the saner part of me intervenes to inform myself that it is really not that important of a question.