I have been told that I must write a blog post about this. I am not actually sure my (apparently) ridiculous antics will be as interesting to anyone  as they are to my friend, but here goes.

So it’s (extremely) cold out these days, and there’s this pair of boots. I love them. Like a lot, a lot. They are lined with beautiful warm fuzziness and they are very handsome (the boots in question are most definitely male). I found them on a boot hunting excursion for my friend a number of weeks ago. They are  practically perfect in every way. Of course, because of their previously stated awesomeness factor (and the fact that I discovered them in Switzerland) they are expensive. Like massively, absurdly, grotesquely expensive. As also described in various prior blog posts, I am already far too broke to live in this country. This means, I of course, was in no way allowed to buy them.

I did, however, spend much time trying them on and stomping proudly through the shop, while pretending to help my friend find some boots for herself. Then, when I took them off, she may have discovered me wandering around, cradling them in my arms. AND she may have thought this was the funniest thing ever. I mean, they were very VERY handsome boots. What do you expect? I wanted to spend as much time with them as I could before we would be forced to part. I don’t see why my actions here were deemed odd.

The problem is, now I am ruined. These are the very bestest boots I will ever find, and nothing else is ever going to measure up. I know this, I have looked. I really would like a new pair of boots. My feets are always freezing, and its only the beginning of winter (i.e. Things Can Only Get Worse).  A new pair of boots will protect me from rain and snow and other weather-related horriblenesses, and if I got these particular boots, they are nice enough to wear to work (yay!). -Which- (I’m not going to lie) I would probably do every day for the next number of months.

ANYWAY- I may have gone back to visit said boots. More than once. My friend also finds this funny. I don’t see why? Like I was attempting to imply in my clumsily expressed prose, they are the only boots for me. Of course I would visit them.

The first time I visited, all was well. The boots got tried on again, and lovingly carried around the shop as per before. The second time I visited, however, I was struck by a catastrophe of gargantuan proportions. The boots were still there, but they no longer had a pair in my size (Waahhh!)! I was devastated. I wasn’t sure how I could go on. I considered collapsing in the middle of the floor in hysterics. In the end, I did (barely) hold myself together, but it was a sad, sad day, and the entire world seemed dimmer because of it. My friend made me go back in and try and order a pair in my size. She said it was probably necessary that I have them despite their price tag, as I was pining and being altogether ridiculously dramatic about the issue (ME? Dramatic? Pffffff. Never!).  In the end, I listened to the voice of reason.

The shop was incredibly busy as it was a Saturday (i.e. weekly day of shopping madness [read: My idea of hell] in this country). I gave the shop girls my name and number, and  they said they’d call if they got them in. The problem? They didn’t indicate any kind of time frame or offer reassurances that the arrival of my wondrous boots was a certainty. This worries me. I may never see my fabulous and warm, and perfectly amazing boots ever again. I am a sad penguin.

Luckily, in an attempt to assuage my soul-crushing grief, a couple of my friends are taking me to France tomorrow in hopes of discovering a pair of winter boots that are equally as perfect (and hopefully much cheaper) (oh and probably to look for Christmas gifts for OTHER people as well)… I have (perhaps misplaced) highs hopes of returning triumphant and with significantly warmer toeses!

Anyway, I’ve no photos to show of the handsome boots to round off this post. I mean, it’s not like I’m crazy or anything…