Mathematic equations for every day living
Normally I love boots. I’d say you can’t have too many boots, but of course they take up a lot of space, and if you have a small closet the answer is Yes, you can have to many boots, because eventually the door won’t close.
My husband also thinks you can have to many boots, but his answer is ‘you already have a pair of high-heeled black boots, you don’t need a second pair.’ So clearly his answer is wrong.
Boot math might be comparable to cat math. What, you somehow missed cat math in school? This is what happens when teachers spend too much time on logarithms and cosigns, they forget to tell you that the number is cats that transforms someone into a crazy cat-lady is “one more than I own.” Unless you are a guy, and then the transformation is one more cat than I have, plus some pretty major surgery.
Except that boot math has more variables than “I have the correct amount, you clearly have a problem,” because there is the already mentioned closet space variable that is pretty personal, and some other factors that I’m not coming up with right now but I’m sure are very legitimate and will justify any future boot purchases I make.
But back to my original statement: normally I love boots. The “s“ is very important, because while I love me some fancy black leather boots, what I do not love is a boot that comes solo.
As long as I have two feet (which is hopefully forever) my footwear should arrive coupled as well. A singular arrival means something has gone horribly awry in foot-land… and sadly just when I could use some cheering up in the pediment region, I am not presented with something feminine and fabulous, but a giant velcro clad storm trooper wanna be.
Which, as I’m finding out on this nice sunny and warm day, is oppressively hot. I’m suffering from emotional claustrophobia of the podiatric area. I’m also having a pity party over the whole boot episode, since I was hoping to be released today, but instead I have another week of being awkward and fashion challenged. Which makes it much worse than yesterday when I only had one day left, instead of another seven.
The formula for feeling sorry for yourself is as follows: I have to wear a foot restraint + one more minute = this sucks.
But even a pity party should have some form of entertainment, so I’ll leave you with this: strangers see my foot, and ask what happened. Everyone expects some sort of story… ‘I have flat feet and they’ve started failing in some major ways‘ just doesn’t make that good a story, so I’ve been mixing it up a little. “I was running in traffic to save some baby otters. You probably heard about it, it was in the news.”
Here is the crazy thing… some people have believed me. Asked what traffic, what road, and how did the baby otters get there?
I’m beginning to see how con artists are able to scam so much money…