My black knee boots, fashionable but leaky, make me feel like Cheryl Strayed in The Wild. The boots are barely holding together, they leak, and I feel every pebble I walk over, so even if the Irish rain slowed for a day or two, I know I have to fork out money for weatherproof footwear. Unlike Strayed, I do not want to repair my boots with Duck Tape.
The best boots I’ve ever worn were my flight boots when I was in the Air Force. Flight boots aren’t as clunky as combat boots. They are quick to don, since like firemen, flyers on alert need to get on the job quickly. The flight boots were comfortable black leather, formed to my feet, and to quote Bill Murray in Stripes, “chicks in New York paying top dollar for this garbage.”
When I left the military, they took the boots. I’ve never understood this. It wasn’t like they could give them to someone else. They were worn. They were formed to my feet, for heaven’s sake, but maybe it was the military selling used boots to fashionistas in New York.
Since the military, most of my shoes and boots come from places like Payless Shoe Store, which is now closed. The shoes fit my budget, but they were what’s wrong with American retail. Designed to last a season. Only a season.
So after my son and I finished the rest of our shopping, he took me to the shops near Victoria Square in Belfast. His dorm is nearby and he knows the back way into an area disrupted by massive crowds and random streets and buildings blocked for repair. He took me to the Doctor.
No, not Dr. Who, but Doc Marten. Or rather, the store for Dr. Martens boots. Dr. Martens are quintessentially British, currently on trend, and have a distinctive yellow stitching and yellow tab that makes them easy for someone like me to recognize.
Two years ago, I wouldn’t have known a Doc Marten from JCPenney, but they’ve exploded in popularity at the campus where I taught, partly because of their platform varieties. As I said last time, campus students here seem to prefer athletic shoes or Doc Martens. My son bought his first pair long before he moved to Belfast and is eyeing a second pair. So it seemed the natural place to take his mom.
Uh, what? I mean, I try to stay current, but I’m not exactly a New York fashionista. But, the thing about Dr. Martens boots is they’re durable and they’ve been around since just after WWII. The cushioned soles made them exceptionally comfortable.
“The boots' comfort made them particularly popular with older women, according to the company. At first, 80% of the sales were to women over the age of 40 who wore them for harsh outdoor work” (via BBC).
Ok, I’m not thrilled with that “older women” line, but I ease my ego with the realization that it’s not the over-40 set wearing them now. After a conversation with the sales guy about a conversion from US sizing, he brought me some options. Just lacing them up took some time, and then the sales guy handed me my first Doc Marten.
And I proceeded to look like an idiot who didn’t know how to put on shoes. They’re stiff. I mean, ouch, tight. My son encourages me. “Use the the tab.” That little yellow tab they’re famous for helps you don the boot. Not exactly quick-don like my flight boots, but what’s a girl to do. I yank and pull like trying to put on skinny jeans after Christmas. Finally, though, my foot is seated. At this point, I’m too mortified to bother finish lacing them to the top. I do a quick tie and a short walk.
They’re thick.
I don’t mean fat, although a little bit. I refused any platform types, so this particular pair look similar to the earlier versions in the BBC article, but they’re also heavy in the way my impractical boots from Payless are not. They remind me a bit of my flight boot, although they’re not quite that tall. So the guy brings out a pair of 14-eye boots (number of eyelets for the laces).
Put these on.
Put what on?
In my head, I’m hearing the guy from The Men in Black saying, “the last suit you’ll ever wear.” I think I hear music.
I won’t say they’re particularly comfortable at first, especially in the toe box, but the sales guy and my son assure me that they’ll conform to my feet. The supple leather of the upper, though, is like the memory of my flight boots and I’m sold. Nostalgia is the best (or worst) kind of emotional appeal. I’m told the wearing in period could be a few weeks and they’ll wreck my feet, but once they’re worn in, I’ll never want to wear another pair of boots again.
When I see the price, the music stops. Just for a moment, like a scratched record where everything freezes before the sound whizzes back with such force it knocks you into another dimension where time and space and money do not exist.
My son reminds me that I haven’t bought a decent pair of shoes in years, that I probably haven’t had a boot the quality of my flight boots since I left the military. All true, but damn.
If I’m ever in an accident, do not—I repeat do not—let them take surgical scissors to my Docs, no matter how severe the injury. Take them off with the respect they deserve, because I have to get my frugal cost per wear out of them. Still I refuse to feel guilty.
These are the last pair of boots I’ll ever wear.
Join me on my journey. I have no idea what I’m doing or where I’ll end up. That’s half the fun. Mileage may vary.