Wednesday, December 23, 2009

In Which Frye Makes Me Cry (Not Really, But It Was Close)

I go through a lot of boots. I mostly wear dresses, and as I walk everywhere and therefor can't wear heels most days I pretty much live in tall boots. I wear them fairly hard too. I have a weird heel wear pattern and rarely get through a season without having to get a zipper replaced. I blame the zipper issue partially on my chubby calves, which cause a little buckling around the ankle, which is where the zip eventually fails.  And it's not that I'm buying cheap boots either. I do, however, balk at spending over $300 on footwear. Which is why I've been having a quarter decade unfulfilled love affair with Frye.

Frye boots are amazing. Sadly they're also hella trendy and everywhere now. And by everywhere I mean I've seen them at Winners. Not the styles I'm particularly smitten with, but still. I've had my eye on the Veronica Slouch for years, but haven't been happy with the brown the past few seasons. They've been doing a weird distressed thing, which I can't get down with (not apparent in the photo above, but super obvious on the physical beast). Whaddup with that, Frye? But these bad boys accommodate my monster calf and don't have a zipper, so booya, boots that might see a few Septembers. I've been patiently waiting for the right brown to come about, using that time to convince myself that I'd be better off dropping a short stack of Borden's (like Benjamin's, only Canadian) on one pair of boots with workmanship that will get me through a few seasons.

And then ....

I found these.

That's right, a Frye boot named after me. Well, maybe not named after me, exactly, but c'mon, there's a kinship there. Sort of like how I felt about Melissa Gilbert and Melissa Sue Anderson (Laura and Mary Ingalls to you). And come to think of it, these boots would have looked quite at home in Walnut Creek.

But I digress.

I've been seeing these everywhere, it's like they're stalking me. On many of my favorite fashion blogs, (see, Jessica at What I Wore knows what's down) on a lady on Fort Street I chased down to ask about them. She said it was her first day wearing them and she'd been comfy-cosy-no-sore-feet for eight hours. These, boots ... despite the terrifyingly narrow looking shaft, well, I had to swallow my pride and try.

So I went to Footloose today after work and, dear sweet baby Jesus (BTW - happy birthday!) they were on sale. Of course the lovely little pixie behind the till was wearing them. Tease. So I tried them on, and for a moment there was hope. Then horror of horrors ... wait for it .... my calf ...

My calf had a muffin top.

That's right. They didn't go up all the way because the gargantuan latitude of my calf prevented the sweet buttery leather from sliding up the full length, forcing some very 80s scrunching in the boot and some very unflattering flesh squeeze above it.

So no early Christmas present for me. No hints dropped to Hank that he can save himself the trouble of a ring and just offer these up with the promise of eternal love and stylish foot comfort. I'll stay just as I am, hobbling along on last year's worn-heel beauties, waiting for the right brown to come about in the Veronica Slouch.

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