I'd all but given up on finding a pair of cowboy boots. (Which is kind of silly, really, considering I've looked for other pieces of clothing - like khaki pants that don't make my butt look like it should have a red flag and a "wide load" sign attached to it - for close to 10 years before giving up.) After like 704 trips to the boot store and absolutely no luck, I decided that if I was to become a boot wearer, the boots were going to have to find me.
A few weeks ago I traveled to Chicago to meet my mom and sister for our annual shopping extravaganza. As we strolled past a empty-of-shoppers shoe store one afternoon, my mom decided, despite my insistence that I didn't need boots or shoes, that we would go in. "You never know what we might find", she said with a smile. I turned my head to the left as I walked reluctantly through the store's front door, and there they were, illuminated on their shelf by a spotlight from on high. Bells rang, and a choir of angels sang "Haaaaa-lle-lu-ja! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!" (Well, that's not entirely true. A bell rang, but I think it was notifying the clerk that we'd entered the store. And while there was no choir, my mom, who looked particularly angelic that day, said "hallelujah" when she saw the boots.) My boots had found me.
You might recall that I bought my "Texas purse" at an antique store in Minocqua, WI. So it's only fitting that this Midwesterner would find her cowboy boots in Chicago, IL. They may not be Texas boots, but they suit the cowboy in me just fine.
Oh, and Hallie likes them too.