The battle of the boots

My mother is a notoriously wonderful gift-giver. She always manages to pick out that perfect something you never knew you wanted, but later couldn't imagine living without. Last Christmas'highlights included a giant color-it-yourself cardboard castle for my cats to play in, a flower-shaped watch, and a pair of bright orange tennis shoes with fluorescent stripes.

As I type, I realize I'm wearing two of those presents. (The castle collapsed upon the impact of my kitty's twenty pound frame crashing through the roof and was subsequently hauled out to the dumpster.) You can imagine my disappointment, then, when I opened one of my brightly wrapped packages to find a boring old pair of winter boots. "Huh, boots," I said, attempting to feign enthusiasm.

"I thought you could use them," my mother replied sheepishly. In my head, I flashed back to all the pairs of winter boots I'd "needed" and reluctantly worn as a child. There was nothing I hated more than carrying my shoes to school in a plastic bag and the smell of everyone's wet boots lined up against the classroom wall. I hated the way my boots were still soggy when I put them on again at the end of the day, and I had to spend what felt like hours lacing and unlacing to cram my damp feet into them. I especially hated that it took me so long to grow out of wearing them.

My mother claims that I would "accidentally" lose my winter boots every chance I got, although I don't remember being that mischievous. The problem with every pair of boots I had as a child was that they would only stay bright and colorful for a few days before the salt and the sludge turned them permanently gray. My mother and I fought many times about the utility of winter boots versus my personal sense of style. I hadn't worn winter boots since middle school, and I briefly fantasized about returning this pair to the store.

For some reason, after the boots came home with me I removed the tags. A day or two later, I tried them on. They fit really well, and despite the dorky rubber toes, the blue flowers and fleece lining made them look kind of cute on my feet. When I left my apartment later that day, I was still wearing my boots. As I trudged though the snow in my parking lot, I couldn't help but notice how warm my feet were. When I got to work, I marveled at the dryness of my socks. Maybe there's something to this winter boot-thing after all, I laughed to myself.

I've come a long way since my first adult journey into the snow wearing the appropriate footgear. I keep my winter boots in the front of my closet instead of buried in the back corner underneath more fashionable shoes. From October to March, if the weather report promises the slightest chance of snow, I know my feet will stay toasty warm. Some days, I even wear my boots just for the heck of it. Lately, I've been rolling the cuffs of my pants up over the tops of my boots to keep them out of the snow, and I've gotten quite a few compliments on my not quite fashionable style.

I should have known that my mother would prove right about the boots; she always is right about that sort of thing. It's funny how such an out-of -character Christmas present could turn into such a lifestyle change for me. I guess after all this time my mother won the battle of the winter boots.