Last fall I gave my green wellies a spectacular send off with six-hour romp through the rain and the mud and the discarded, half-eaten bagels.
Finally, in early January, I bought a new pair of boots.
Grown-ups don't wear red boots. Grown-ups wear sensible boots in sensible colors like navy or charcoal. But if I am going to have to traipse around in vortex-like temperatures in a colorless, bleak Chicago winter, the least I can do is bring some good ole fashion adventure boots along for the ride. These boots are made for snow drifts and mucky, grey sidewalks. They are made for spur of the moment escapes from hibernation and the mindless trudging to my warm, but ultimately stuffy and very-grown-up office building. They have been my mostly companions for the past three weeks and I love them.
They are me. Sensible and impractical. Fun and safe (look at those reflector lights!). Warm and yet, always in need of another layer. If I have to spend my winter anywhere other than under the covers, I'm glad I get to spend it with you.
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