My Wife Found My Handwritten Boot Message

So my wife calls me into the kitchen last week. She's holding a piece of paper, and she has that face - you know the face. It's the "we need to talk about what I just found" face.

"What is 'Le Boot Das Boot The Boot'?"

And immediately I know. Oh no. She found it. The thing I wrote about boots after two beers and a particularly moving trip to REI.

She starts reading it out loud: "A boot that lasts is a declaration type of faith."

"It's a typo," I say. "I meant declaration OF faith."

"That's what you're concerned about? The typo? You wrote a religious document about boots."

And she keeps going: "The boot is a companion... developing its own biographical scuffs and crusty creases."

Crusty creases. I wrote "crusty creases" and thought, "Shakespeare would be proud." Shakespeare would call the police.

"When you choose an everlasting pair of boots, you arere choosing to invest meaning-"

"Another typo."

"You typed this? Like, on purpose? This isn't a ransom note?"

The thing is, I remember writing this. It was late. I'd just bought new boots - good ones, the kind with the lifetime warranty that you know is lying but you believe anyway. And I started thinking about them. Really thinking. Too much thinking.

She hits the worst part: "Durability is its own form of grace."

"That's beautiful," I tell her.

"It's about BOOTS. You compared boots to grace. What's next, comparing shoelaces to the bonds of matrimony?"

Don't tell her about my shoelace essay.

"Even one physical boot... becomes sacred."

"One boot? What happened to the other boot in this scenario?"

"It's hypothetical."

"Everything about this is hypothetical! Listen to this: 'a victory against any tendency toward decay.' You know what else is a victory against decay? Refrigeration. But nobody's writing poetry about their Frigidaire."

Actually, now that she mentions it...

"The beauty of the worn path... allure of the untrodden..."

"Those are just the two options for paths. That's all the paths. You just described all possible paths and made it sound profound."

She's right, but I'm committed now. "The boots represent something bigger."

"They represent boots. They're boots. They go on feet. That's the whole thing."

Then she gets to the part where I compare boots to "real friendships... genuine love... hard-won wisdom."

"You compared our marriage to footwear."

"Good footwear."

"That's not better!"

The truth is, every man goes through this. You hit a certain age and suddenly you have opinions about boots. Strong opinions. The kind of opinions that apparently need to be written down in three languages for some reason.

"Why is it called 'Le Boot Das Boot The Boot'?"

"International boots."

"What?"

"The boots are multicultural."

"THE BOOTS ARE FROM DICK'S SPORTING GOODS."

She's waving the paper now: "Choosing the slow revelation of quality over quick flashes."

"That's just you being cheap."

"It's philosophy."

"It's you justifying wearing the same boots for five years."

"They have biographical scuffs!"

"They have mud! Regular mud!"

Then she hits me with the ending: "Permanence... however modest... is its own form of poetry."

Long pause.

"Did you cry while writing this?"

"No."

Maybe.

"About boots?"

"They're good boots."

She folds up the paper. "I'm keeping this. For the divorce lawyer."

"That seems extreme."

"You wrote 'humans can make things that endure' about footwear. You've lost perspective."

She's probably right. But those boots are still in the garage. Still crusty. Still sacred, if we're being honest. Every time I see them, I remember that night when I had two beers and confused myself for Thoreau.

Thoreau lived by a pond and wrote about nature. I live by a strip mall and write about boots.

We are not the same.

But we both have good footwear.