Slowing down doesn't mean getting left behind

Notes from sabbatical, nearly one year later.

It used to be that as soon as October rolled in, I’d shake my boots out of hibernation and put away my sandals for the year. The seasonal switch. But these days I live in my sneakers. My boots now line my closet like markers of time and place, relics that I keep around because they remind me of who I used to be. When I step into my closet, I see vestiges of my former self, some of whom I barely recognize.

In the corner sits my square-toed caramel boots. It has a rather awkward shaft height—taller than an ankle boot but not tall enough to be knee-highs. They are by far my oldest pair, an impulsive buy during my NYU grad school days. Some of my classmates all bought shoes from this one particular store on West Broadway because of its proximity to a certain art gallery that we’d frequent in Soho, back when the last of the art galleries still existed in that neighborhood.

Tucked in a corner on the floor are my knee-high boots with a block heel bought at a boutique in Nolita. They are the color of chestnuts and soft with a velvety nubuck finish. We used to zip tall boots over our skinny jeans for years, but I haven’t worn that look in well over a decade, maybe more. I do still wear them with dresses though.

My black Swedish Hasbeens with the 3 inch heels was a bargain find at the Hester Street Fair. They were in new-with-tags condition and I only paid $50. Thank goodness because they were never that comfortable.