I was inspired by “Brittany Herself” to write about this subject. You should check out her blog at www.brittanyherself.com. She’s a great writer. And she’s really, really funny. No, she’s not a personal friend. She doesn’t even know I exist. I just follow her. Because she’s a funny female. Something I am aspiring to be. But I digress.
I’m no Twiggy. I’m not a size 4 or 6 anymore but I’m not Plus size either, not yet anyway. I would say I was average. Average is average, right? So why in the world is it so damn difficult to find a pair of cute riding boots that fit around my calf?
Two Christmas’s ago the only thing on my list was a pair of brown riding boots and a pair of black ones (yes, the same ones that made my feet look and feel like the inside of a chum bucket). DH wanted some suggestions. So, I took myself to the local mall and began my search. I thought it would be easy. Every other woman, girl and child were wearing them. I’ve already seen half a million different boots that I loved. Easy. Breezy. And as the kid would say, “no probs.”
I loaded my arms with what seemed like a dozen half pairs and asked the salesman for a size 7. Thank you very much. I waited with anticipation for the footwear fashion show that I was about to have for myself right there in the middle of the Macy’s shoe department to begin. I was so charged. I thought the only problem I was going to have was to decide which pair I liked best.
After a few minutes, Tom the Salesman came out of the stockroom with a pile of boxes. I was beyond excited. You know that feeling you get right before you get on a roller coaster? That excited. Except without the feeling-like-you’re-going-to-throw-up part.
As I pulled on boot after boot, I was discovering that not one single pair will close around or pull up over my calf. It was like trying to squeeze a rhino into a girdle. And no shoe horn in the free world was going to help me.
The air was let right out of me. Not gingerly, like when you don’t want the balloon to pop in your face so you put the pin through a piece of tape you adhered to the surface kind of air release. This was the real thing. Complete with the loud bang accompanied by a small heart attack. Quickly, my “no probs” turned into a “probs.”
“Why,” I said to Tom, “are the shafts on all of these boots so tight? Who are these made for? Barbie?” He then went on to explain to me that a lot of women started complaining to shoe companies about the size of the calves on boots. They were “too big.” Too big for who? Oh right. Barbie. I’m calling bullshit. 90% (not a real statistic, I kinda made that up but it’s gotta be close) of the female population is not Barbie. Perhaps Skipper. But not Barbie.
Barbie and her skinny-ass calves in a bikini
Skipper in a tankini with “average” calves
I am Skipper. My neighbor is Skipper. 4 of my 5 sisters-in-law are Skipper. Ok, so my best friend might be Barbie. I am no mathematical wizard, but it seems to me that most of us are at least Skipper.
So, where did I find my “wide-calved” boots? On the internet. After hours upon hours of completely stressful and irritating searching. Yes, I like my boots. I don’t love them like some I’ve seen on other women. But I do like them a lot. I even will get the occasional compliment. But I’m allowed to have a little bumfest.
So now I just walk around in complete boot-envy hell. That’s okay. Spring should be here any day now. Then I won’t have to worry about it for another 6 or 7 months. My flip flops fit great. You can’t take that away from me Barbie. Well, unless these become popular:
Then you’ll just find me in the Caveman exhibit at the Museum of Natural History. Because that’s what I’ll be. A barefooted caveman. Or a hippy. Wait, that could be fun. I was at Woodstock. Ok, I wasn’t. But I could have been. Who cares if I was 2. I’m sure I was barefoot then too.