I'm really digging flat ankle booties, and in particular Chelsea booties, right now. I've been wearing sneakers for nearly a year since having had foot surgery last December, and while I do love my slip-on Vans, I'm ready to graduate from skater canvas to the wild world of cool-girl leather. The Chelsea boot, with its flatness and roomy toe box, seems like it just might be my ticket to ride.
Why the Chelsea boot, and why now? You mean, aside from the fact that it's just plain cool? Why, Thanksgiving, of course.
But not for the reasons you might think. It's not just because of the Black Friday and Cyber Monday deals that undoubtedly drive me to consume far more than I ever should. It's not the 30% off, 40% off, spend $200 and get $25 off, use code GETFESTIVE, FREESHIP, act now or regret forever. I mean, obviously, that's part of it... okay, that's a lot of it. But it's not all of it.
It's not at all all of it. Because if the sales alone were all of it, then the Chelsea bootie would make no sense. The Chelsea bootie would be but one of many random purchases that the brilliant department store marketers have manipulated me into believing I must buy. And the Chelsea boot was not but one of many random purchases. It was not, I tell you!
(I mean, fine, I didn't just buy a pair of boots. I bought a lot of pairs of boots to try because who knows how they'll fit? And I bought boots from multiple stores because the sizes were selling out as I was price-comparing and putting them in my shopping cart, and it was maddening. And okay, yeah, I also got a few long down puffy coats to try because I'm cold and I want to feel like I'm commuting to work in a comforter. And a new down pillow for Matt and me because it was on sale and feels like sleeping on a cloud and no other pillow will do, and don't we deserve it? I got it on sale, after all. And a plaid flannel shirt because the dry cleaners lost my favorite one and because I needed to get over an extra threshold of spending to get to a new level of savings and I'll probably return it anyway... I mean, truly, the psychology of Black Friday/Cyber Monday is insane! Forget buyer's remorse or saver's remorse: the "need" that these post-Thanksgiving sales instill in our malleable, exhausted, L-Triptophan-laden, wine-infused brains creates an entirely new form of MY-GOD-WHAT-HAVE-I-DONE? guilt and self-loathing.)
But existential crisis aside, the reason I'm into the Chelsea boot right now is really not the sales at all.
The real reason? Nostalgia.
Thanksgiving is a time of giving thanks and of gratitude and of being with family. And for me -- and I imagine it is for many of you -- it's also a time of remembering. Because childhood was great, and the holidays as a child were sparkly and involved mandated time off of school. And because Thanksgiving as an adult is so much harder than it was as a kid, isn't it? I mean, don't get me wrong, I love every part of it. It's incredible and wonderful and I appreciate it so much more now as an adult than I did as a kid, when I didn't realize just how much work it all was -- when I thought it was just a given -- and what a novelty it was to have all of your family from near and far under one roof breaking bread and doing the dishes together. But as an adult, the physical act of getting yourself to the Thanksgiving table -- of gunning the gas pedal on everything else -- on all that other effort of getting a seat at the other table(s) -- for weeks prior and then suddenly slamming on the breaks for just long enough to pack a bag and catch a flight or make the drive or, god forbid, host -- is downright exhausting.
As we age and our families morph and merge and bifurcate and grow, new traditions are created and some old ones are maintained. There is always turkey. Same as it ever was. Isn't it great that there is always turkey? And even better, there is also always so much more. Tradition is wonderful, but it has a way of locking us into old ways and closing our minds to new experiences - old habits die hard, as they say; but having new experiences has a way of expanding our horizons and making us open to change and new ideas and, subsequently, new contentedness. There's innocence lost, sure; but also new traditions and a new kind of happiness gained.
As I write this (it's the Saturday after Thanksgiving - who knows when I'll actually hit "publish"), I'm laying on a ginormous sofa in my sister- and brother-in-law's lovely new house in North Carolina. My husband Matt just flew back to New York in the morning for work, and I just spent the day getting a pedicure and eating pizza with my sister-in-law (I mean, really my dream come true) and I am now lying here in sweats and serenity while my brother-in-law snores next to me. I feel completely at home in a family that I was not a part of until just a few short years ago.
But with that new sense of serenity and gratitude of being part of a new family, there is also that sense of remembering our "original" families -- the ones we knew when we were kids; the ones we knew when we knew nothing else -- and what it was like when there was less to worry about. There's the nostalgia. For being a kid. For having no cares in the world.
I am an only child. And growing up I had no cousins at all on my mom's side of the family until I was 17. So when we would do Thanksgiving with my mom's side of the family in St. Joe, Missouri, I was quite literally the only child. It was me, my parents, my Mama Norma (grandmother) and my incredibly cool aunts and uncles, Aunt Mimi, Uncle Dan, Uncle Mike and his wife Aunt Jackie. I idolized my aunts and uncles. They were in their twenties and early thirties (ancient, learned, wise cool ones to a 10ish year old), and I hung on their every word and fashion choice.
Much of my memory of these Thanksgiving times is blurry. I can't place the year(s) or my age. But I can remember the smells and the feels. I remember the plush pink carpeting and (fake?) wood paneling and heavy brick fireplace in my Mama Norma's family room. The linoleum floor in the kitchen that was meant to look like brick. The pantry that had a secret double-layered door that hid my Kraft Mac and Cheese and Spaghettios & Meatballs. The orange and white 60s floral wallpaper in the kitchen. The saloon quality (and shiny, non-wood feel) to all wood features - swinging doors that I loved to swing and swivel chairs that I loved to swivel on and a bar that I could climb up onto from the swivel chair to retrieve Diet Cokes from a mini fridge. There was even a small fake Western town of storefronts in the unfinished, cobwebby basement. It was always dusty and there were never kids to play in it with me and I realize now that adults had no interest in going down there, but I remember it and that concrete, cinder-blocked basement all the same. I'd run around it all as if it were my own personal play area. As if all basements had small Western-themed towns made for kids. That basement had a pool table. I could play against myself for hours (seldom correctly), and when I was lucky, I'd convince one of my aunts or uncles or my dad -- and if I was really lucky, more than one of them -- to come down and play a round with me. I was terrible (and very small), but over time, each one of them managed to teach me how to hold the cue correctly and to think about angles and to always, always avoid the 8 ball. I learned a lot in that basement.
Amongst all of these memories, I have one very clear one: It is the memory of boots. It is of being in the basement and hearing the clunk, clunk, clunk of someone's arrival. It is of being in the family room and watching each of my awesome aunts and uncles walk into the room, having just arrived in their Hondas and Toyotas from their drive from Kansas City or St. Louis, still emanating the cold St. Joe air that they picked up between the car and the front door, still wearing their coats and hats and letting out hellos and giving hugs. And in those moments, they always clunked in wearing thick, black leather boots. 90s boots. Sturdy, sh*t-kicking boots. Boots I yearned to be old enough to wear.
Each arrival was different. Aunt Mimi would squeal and sort of march in place as I ran to her. Uncle Dan would always show up in his uniform -- ripped, worn jeans, an oversized heather wool sweater, a wool hat and Chelsea boots -- and hold up his hand for a high five. Uncle Mike would run in grinning and squat down in his jeans and rugged boots, open his arms wide and let me dive into them for a bear hug. Aunt Jackie would always be by his side, wearing a hip, healed boot, her hair always blond and perfect and covetable, ready with a hug.
Those boots (unbeknownst to me) symbolized so very much to my young mind: the arrival of family; love and comfort; adultness; coolness.
And now, years later, they have come to symbolize something else for me: Youth. Strength. And fond memories.
That house in St. Joe no longer exists. Or so I hear. Zillow and Trulia thankfully tell me its edifice endures, but my Mama Norma sold the house several years ago, and rumor has it that the buyers razed its Formica'd, linoleum'd, saloon-themed wood-paneling to the ground. It's a pity. That house was the best for exploring.
But it's still there in my memory. All of its insides are still living and so real to me. That strange basement in particular.
As are the boots. Their clunk. Their weight. Their leatheriness. Their coolness.
Where to Buy
I'm working on a comprehensive list and will share this with you soon. I bought a number of different options -- Tory Burch mostly (because she makes boots with a wide toe box, and also, I love her), Sam Edelman, Munro (a brand I didn't know existed until yesterday but which makes boots in wide sizes and with cushioned insoles) and Vince -- the majority of which have sold out at the moment, so I don't want to list them here and give you false hope (and I also don't want to vouch for something I haven't tried yet). If I were to make general recommendations on quality worth the price, I would recommend trying Frye, Tory Burch and Vince on the higher end (over $200) and Sam Edelman, Steve Madden, Doc Marten and Vince Camuto on the lower end (under $200).
What are your favorite Thanksgiving memories?
Happy Thanksgiving and happy finding happy!
I am a designer and financial professional with a background in comparative literature, business and design. I live in New York with my overworked lawyer husband and sweet, art-and-design-loving toddler son and spend much of my free time dreaming about how to enhance the aesthetics of our little world. I am endlessly inspired and always in search of something new. This is a blog about my search, my inspiration and things I just really, really like or want.
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