Eulogy for My Sexy Boots

Oh, my sexy boots.
I remember when I first saw you. On sale, in a busy mall. I impulsively grabbed a salesgirl to bring you to me. I’d barely slipped you on when I’d already decided you were going to be mine.
How I loved the sharpness of your lines. The wicked point of your toes. The height of your heels just perfectly dangerous. I loved the way you clung to my calves, coating every curve in shiny black.
You went with everything. I could even trendily slouch your fabric, satisfying multiple fashion needs in one pair of boots. Peeking out from under the hem of pants, you suggested the mystery of more to come. Accenting skirts, you brought every ensemble up one notch of fabulousness.
The first time you let me down – or was it I who let you down? – was at a concert. I rocked back on a heel and then the whole world shifted. There was a sickening snap. When I reached down to try to right the wrongly bent heel, it came off in my hand. I spent the rest of the evening unhappily sitting and mourning at the back of the venue.
But I did not lose hope. I made a special trip and took you, my beloved sexy boots, to the very best shoe repair I knew. They’d worked miracles one summer day on my sister’s Camper sandals, and I figured if anyone could save you, they could. The prognosis was skeptical, but they agreed to try, and a few days later I had you back, almost good as new.
Then came my bachelorette party. Damn, you looked good with my little-boy britches and fishnet stockings. You lasted with me all night – club after club, dancefloor after dancefloor. Then, late, late in the night… The dancefloor of the Matador was empty. I was drunk. A raucous song came on. And you couldn’t take it any more. One boisterous stomp was all that separated me from continued happiness with my sexy boots.
Luckily, I had a pair of sneakers in my overnight bag, and didn’t have to spend another night with wounded, broken boots bringing me down.
This time I knew there was no fixing you. You sat, useless and sad, at the back of my closet for months. I couldn’t bear to throw you away.
Now I send you down the garbage chute. Thank you for being a great pair of boots. It is with regret that I let you go.

The sexy boots are dead!
Long live the sexy boots!