these boots were made for... walking.

I (eventually) fell into fashion after I fell out of sports. Well, more like gave up on making it as a 5’3” small forward in the WNBA (because, uh, really?). So, out went the sweat pants and gym shorts, athletic bras and t-shirts and in came… Abercrombie and Fitch.

Ugh, I’m gagging at the memory now.

Yes, I thought that $30 t-shirts and $80 (destroyed!) jeans qualified as “fashion”. I became addicted to what was considered cool, price be damned! Because hey, it wasn’t MY credit card that was being charged a couple hundred bucks at a time. What did I care? And I’m sure in the typical angsty teen fashion, I mumbled a “Thanks Mom” and dashed down to my bedroom to throw those embroidered moose covered clothes in the air and roll around in them, breathing in the scent screaming "OMG ABERCROMBIE I LOVE YOU."

To this day, I honest to god love the smell of A&F stores. Seriously, they just smell so GOOD. So shoot me.

As any good obsession usually does, it ended. I eventually got tired of walking around in shirts with blatantly sexual innuendos plastered across my chest. This was also probably around the time I started working and started paying for my own stuff. I can only imagine the look on my face the first time I went to pay for my pair of jeans and two shirts from there and they tell me my total is ONE BILLION DOLLARS. Then of which I probably crapped my pants.

However, this was back during the time when I was “rich” (aka: working 6 days a week while in high school, living with my parents, no bills and only sometimes paying them back for the car insurance I was supposed to be paying.) This developed into a case of what can only be described as complete destruction of self-control and I just, bought whatever I wanted when I wanted. I had the money, so going to the mall every weekend for new clothes was no big deal. Why would I do laundry when I could just go and get something new?

In short, I lived in EXTREME excess. Annnnnd, it pretty much ruled.

Buying new things made me feel good. NICE things. EXPENSIVE things. Things that no one else my age had. I devoured fashion magazines like they were the Bible (in full disclosure, the September Issue of Vogue IS the Bible) and just morphed into this epic consumerist that had to dress a certain way while purchasing any and everything I could get my hands on. But it had to be the best of the best. And the mention of Goodwill? PLEASE. Only “poor people” shop there. It’s “dirty”. I WILL NEVER SHOP, NOR SET FOOT IN ANY STORE LIKE GOODWILL. IT IS BELOW ME.

…um, yeah. Did I mention that was also a really shitty time emotionally in my life? I’d go back in time and kick my own ass if I could.

Flash forward to reality and when I decided to move (and you know, start paying bills) that luxury went out the window, along with the elitist attitude. And it sucked, at first. It sucked not being able to just go buy something new when I wanted (though, the temptation is greatly reduced when the closest mall is 40 minutes away) but it’s made me appreciate clothes more. Get creative and make more of an effort to put things together. And awaken a new-found love for thrift stores. Who saw that one coming?

I love the rush I get when I find something that I love, and it’s my size. It’s like it was meant to be. I love finding an article of clothing and visualizing what I could do with it and I most certainly love that it’s CHEAP. Also, it needs to be noted that I’m friends with the QUEEN of thrift store shopping, Bethany, and I probably wouldn’t be so into it if it wasn’t for her. I’m not kidding. If thrifting was a sport, she’s the Michael Jordan of it.

Except for yesterday.

To sum things up, I've been looking for a pair of (vintage) Frye boots for probably a year now. It's like my ultimate thrift store find and I just haven't come across any (in my size, fucking size 9 feet) yet. So, I put the word out to all my fellow thrifters with specific directions as follows: If you ever see a size 9 Frye boot, YOU BUY THAT SHIT AND I WILL PAY YOU BACK. Subtle? Never. Get the point across? Yup.

So, yesterday afternoon, I get word that Frye boots in my size have been found. And purchased. And I FREAKED. OUT. I'm talking incoherent screams of joy, jumping up and down, and maybe even some tears of happiness. I was anxiously awaiting their arrival, texting friends about how the elusive Frye boots had been found and how jealous they must be, etc. Because I am THAT PERSON.

But then my world came crashing down when I was informed that they really were not THE elusive Frye boots I've been wishing for. And I was bummed, and I mean BUMMED. The gesture was sweet (S was the one who saw them and bought them) but they just weren't THE boots. So we stood and talked for a little bit, the wrong boots taunting me from the floor and I couldn't get why I felt so, weird about these shoes. SHOES PEOPLE. THEY ARE SHOES. I should be thankful, fortunate that someone thought of me and even though she was wrong, she still bought them anyway. For me. So she left, and I sat down with those boots and had a little slice of humble pie.

I realized I had convinced myself that I didn't like them because they weren't Frye boots. Because, the longer I sat there, the more and more cute they looked. Light brown with stitched detail, a rounded toe and stacked heel. Pretty much what a Frye boot is and I'm sitting there being lame because it doesn't say FRYE on the label?

Oh please Allison, get a grip and get over yourself. I thought we were over this?



15 minutes later, I had those babies on and I was strutting around like I'm on a runway. I'm totally and completely in love with these boots and I don't care that they're not what I was originally looking for. They're better, in fact, because they have some semblance of meaning. Thanks to these boots (and S, for being her amazing self even when I was being a brat) I was reminded yet AGAIN of how much I've changed. By a pair of BOOTS, yes. Judge me.

And I'm planning to rock the shit out of these for the entire Fall season.