These Boots are made for Gawkin’

Memories reverberate in me as I sit on the side of my bed, pulling on my boots.

These are not just any boots. They are not cowboy boots, though wearing them makes me feel as close to a cowboy I’ll ever be. They are not winter boots, though donning them in the wintertime grants me delusions that I am hot enough to melt the snow.

These are my concert boots, the kind that go STOMP STOMP, the big kind, nearly up to my knees; lacing them could be an Olympic event. Oh, and these memories reverberating in me? These are not just any memories.

As I begin to lace my boots of black and maroon faux leather—vegan for the animals, y’see—reveries of past decades swirl around in and baptize my nervous system, calling me back to my twenties, back when I didn’t just get dressed when I went out; I wore costumes that raised my stats, just like in the video games.

So many concerts, back then. So many boots. So much black nail polish and messy eye liner, not to mention all that Elmer’s glue turning my hair to crisp daggers of bleach blonde or perhaps pink or purple, or sometimes my natural brown.

Lost at Walgreens

I tighten the laces I’ve crossed so far, just up the top of my foot, about at the ankle, as I remember being 23 in a Walgreens, haplessly shopping for eyeliner.

A lady who reminded me of my mom browsed the same aisle, and she looked like she knew what she was doing, so I asked her which brand she would buy if she were me. Her smile was non-committal, her eyebrows arching in a manner that looked partially amused, partially concerned; but some mysterious maternal force came over her once she realized I was serious.

Later that night, maybe I was born with it, but maybe it was Maybelline.

Lord of the Raccoons

Back in the now, my smile shares a moment with a warm pulsation in my heart, my left boot’s lacing nearly complete now, as I recall how it felt to look in the mirror that eve at 23, all dressed up with somewhere to go.

Thinking back, I’m certain my eyeliner turned me into the Lord of the Raccoons, but in those days I wore it proudly like a rock god. I applied my makeup without any endeavor of perfection whatsoever, hoping people would construe my laziness as some counter-cultural intentionality or punk rock statement. My special little trademark was to draw a line of black down to my upper cheek from the corner of my right eye, and then intersect it with another line to produce an X. No one knew why, especially me. Some things just are.

At any rate, that smooth-faced 23-year-old me felt larger than life studying himself in the mirror, like he could stretch up, transcend the sky, and change the whole world, then be home in time for dinner. Utterly iconic in his own mind.

Trust me, feeling iconic is almost as good as being it.

In the present, with my left boot fully secure, my fingers begin working the right lace’s ascent up its faux leather spire, reflecting on the countless industrial rock shows I stomped around at in my twenties. All those sleep deprived road trips, occasionally falling asleep and waking up in a panic at the wheel, kept alive by energy drinks and passion for music, culture, and of course, big boots.

Some of my boots back then were excessively strappy and covered in pointless buckles, except they weren’t really pointless, because they added to my sex appeal.

Some boots were shiny vinyl like pants in The Matrix, and thanks to my uncommon shoe size every pair I ever owned was much too large for my feet, but that’s OK, because boots laced up to your knees tend to stay put regardless.

Some of my boots got splattered in vomit, both other people’s and my own; depending on where the night took us and which drugs were available.

Plot twist

Tonight, as I tie my right boot tightly at its apex, let me say a secret I’ve never uttered aloud: I’m starting to hate boots.

I’m not 23 anymore. My hair is not spiked or bleached or pink or even entirely its natural brown; salt has properly infiltrated my pepper factory, so to speak, and I’ve fought through this life to earn every gray hair I own.

With these boots of mine fully donned this eve, I push all my second thoughts away, groaning to myself, “It’s only a few hours at a show. Let’s be iconic. For old time’s sake.”

I imagine slopping on some Maybelline and nail polish like the old days, but decide no one wants to see that. Furthermore, I would rather not waste money on nail polish remover. Everyone wins, just how I like it.

The Sketchers in the Trunk

After an hour drive, I pull into a parking garage in the Detroit ghetto, just blocks from the venue.

My feet are already sweating and lamenting their confines, wondering why they’re so abused. Deep down, I know that the best part of wearing my boots tonight will be taking them off.

I get out of the car for a moment, stepping a few times toward the downtown streets, but then I smile wider and warmer than I have all day, as it occurs to me:

Dude. I think my Sketchers are in the trunk.

“I’m 45 now. I love the adorable trainwreck I was when I was 23, but he’s not calling the shots anymore,” I say out loud, nearly singing, as I liberate my feet in that Detroit parking garage; some homeless guy is about to ask me for money, but turns around and leaves, maybe because I am talking to myself. Or maybe my feet stink.

I put on my Sketchers. My feet rejoice. I practically bounce my way to the venue and have an amazing night. I make new memories to synergize with the old ones, reveries I hope will replay in my head in another twenty years as I get ready for some other concert.

Just for today, my new way of feeling powerful is being comfortable in my own skin, in my own (age-appropriate) shoes.