Recently I went into that corner, looking for some item that I thought had dropped behind my hamper instead of landing inside of it. It was then that I discovered the carnage. I wanted to bang my head against a wall. How many times have I seen and heard this dog walk around in circles, clawing at the ground or his pillowy bed before plopping down!? Why didn’t I think of what he was actually clawing in the corner of my closet!?
So there you have it, my Fabulous Boots, torn to shreds by Mojo’s claws, in the effort to make them into a comfy bed in his den.
“What’s the big deal?” you ask, “It’s only shoes.”
No. These are not just shoes. These are a symbol. A symbol of a former version of myself. A self that went out late looking Fabulous. A self that was infused with sexual power that inspired grown men to get on their hands and knees at my feet to worship and make love to The Boots. (OK, just one man, who admittedly had a major foot fetish to the point that he referred to himself as BootBoy, but still you get my point.)
I remember when I was pregnant and my feet were so swollen I couldn’t fit into any of my shoes. I wondered to myself if I would ever be able to wear The Boots again. I wondered furthermore if I would ever have occasion to wear them again. Would I ever again have the energy to go out somewhere deserving of The Boots? Would I ever again have a desire to go anywhere deserving of The Boots? How would being a mother change that part of me that was so significant in my 20s and to a slightly lesser extant in my early 30s?
Teresa Strasser wrote on her blog about remaining badass after motherhood:
When I think “mom,” I don’t want to think haggard, beleaguered “mom bloggers” telling Oprah about their crappy, sit-com sex lives and zany diaper mishaps, I want to think of women being exactly who they were before kids, only better…I know I would trade the frightful notion of Ann Taylor knits covered in crumbs for even the illusion of ass-kicking motherhood in the form of skin and ink.
I have not gotten rid of any of my badass, skin showing ensembles. All my leather and lace, velvet and vinyl remains intact if not covered in dust in the corners of my closet - except for The Boots, of course. They are reminders of the fabulous, sexy, powerful woman that I once was. The passing of The Fabulous Boots feels like a passing of an era. Now I know I will never wear them again and I mourn. I mourn for The Boots and I mourn a little bit for the badass woman that may still be lurking under this always-tired skin, still covered in jeans that have dried baby pee from this morning’s leaky diaper, because I lacked the time or energy to change into clean pants.
Sometimes I wonder if I should get rid of my stash. In 10 years, what will I tell SchmoopyBaby if he should stumble across a leather mini corset dress? How much of my mildly sordid past will I share with him? Should a boy know that his mother was ever anything other than the vanilla, stuck-in-the 80s, slightly embarrassing old lady that he thinks of her as? I haven’t decided yet. I’ll admit to being in procrastination mode as far as that is concerned. I have no desire to lie about anything in my past to him. If he ever asks, “Mom, did you ever (fill in blank) when you were young?” I will answer him honestly. A direct question deserves a direct answer, and he deserves to know about my experiences and what I learned about myself and the world through those experiences. And if my experiences can help him avoid any pitfalls and help him make good decisions based on sound judgment all the better.
RIP Fabulous Boots. We had a hell of a ride.