From that unquestionably sound source of web-based fact
collection (Wikipedia), “Boot Hill” is described thus:
“Although many towns use the name
‘Boot Hill’, the first graveyard named ‘Boot Hill’ was at Dodge City, Kansas.
The term alludes to the fact that many of its occupants were cowboys who ‘died
with their boots on.’”
I imagine that will be me. Dying with my boots on. Not
because I plan to lose a shoot-out (although anything is possible) but because
I am boot crazy.
Today I am wearing boots. Yesterday I wore them. And the
day before that. Different boots (obviously for different moods).
My husband does not understand my desire for so many pairs
(although as far as indulgences go, he kind of digs this one). On the other
hand, if he was thinking we would be able to retire – ever – then I suppose he
might wish I were less of a booty spendthrift.
(And that’s even before he finds out about the awesome pair of slouch
styled distressed leather lovelies that are waiting a decent interval in my
closet to be introduced for Spring…)
But here’s the deal: I like seeing other people in boots – I
like wearing them. Biker, cowboy, equestrian, Wellies, hiking, even those ubiquitous Ugg things. When you pull on a pair of boots,
you’re pulling on a posture and a certain je
ne sais quoi – not to mention the ability to wade through miles of
metaphorical bullsh*t. Boot wearing is a total attitude cop. It’s all about
your own personal brand, because the style you wear says as much about you as
the car you drive. (And in some cases, costs nearly the same.)
When I was in grade school, I remember thinking I would die
a little inside every day if I didn’t get a pair of crinkly patent-leather
“go-go” boots. When I finally got them, it didn’t matter that they sloshed
loosely around my slim little calves – I was ROCKING THOSE BOOTS.
The same thing sorta happens when I slip on my totally authentic
cowboy boots (actually purchased within sight of an Arizona mesa) and I’ll admit there are times
I can be a bit of a handful because of this, albeit a joyful one.
So, yeah, it’s just possible I may die with my boots on –
qualified, as it were, to be buried in a Boot Hill Cemetery. That’s because the world is a kickier
place when I am in boots, and when life offers such a scrumptious menu, I say
order what you like. (That’ll be one more pair of boots, please – sauce on the
side.)
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