Drunk with the power of proper shoes

Oh how I loathe wearing proper shoes.

Oh how I've always maintained that there's nothing that I really *need* proper shoes for.

Oh how I've gone all over this world in flip flops even when people are all, "Um, people don't really wear flip flops in Italy." and "You do realize it'll be snowing when we get off the plane in Austria, right?" and such.

To these proper shoe lovers I've always just been, like, "Dudes, whatever." and then I installed a fireplace insert in my house so that I could wear flip flops all winter without freezing my tiny alien toes off.

Warm aliens. That's what you want.

Because, yes, I have the coldest feet in womankind. Bubba can attest to this with much enthusiasm, I assure you. Because I like to get into bed and, when faced with his nightly chiding, poke the backs of his legs with my ice toes.

HA HA! Call me bizarre names and make tons of noise getting into bed, will you!

Trust me - he sorely deserves this treatment.

Also, it's very romantic in our house.

With my ice toes and his absurd jokes and the dog's nightly butt licking circus. ROMANCE! It's all around us.

Which is why Bubba got me the world's most romantic gift this holiday season...

Witness ye, Proper Shoes. Already fucked up from the Proper Usage.

I guess the man's Proper Shoes threshold was breached when I was going about my farm work in shiny red rubber boots. Not that those boots weren't proper footwear for the occasion - it was fucking muddy out there up to the knees - but those boots don't have steel toes, durable leather uppers, a green wear indicator stripe and the John Deere emblem stamped on the heel.

Because you can really feel assured of the workman quality of something when a logo most commonly associated with tractors is stamped on the thing.

At least that's the theory I'm working off of, here. Whether it's based in reality, I have no idea.

What I can tell you is that, when donning the Proper Shoes As Determined By Bubba, I am just shy of morphing into an actual super hero.

What? What is this dramatic turn of events? Where are the all-purpose flip flops in all of this footwear madness? What about the frozen alien toes?

Yeah. I'm a changed woman and I'll tell you why.

SHOVELING.

People, have I ever told you how many times I've bruised the arches of my feet? Particularly my right shoveling foot? No?

Many, many times.

I have bruised the arch of my right foot (and sometimes the left one, too, because I'm equal opportunity like that and also I injure the right one first and then have to fall back on the awkward left one) many, many times doing yardwork like shoveling in improper shoes.

There was a time when I had to take a break from running because I bruised my right foot so severely while shoveling in my old running shoes that I had a visible black and blue swath across the arch of my right foot.

I was only mildly ashamed of myself. Bubba was horrified and used that instance to gently suggest for the one thousandth time that perhaps I might consider GETTING SOME PROPER SHOES DAMN IT WOMAN.

No, he didn't say it like that. He's way too nice. But I got the hint. In the sense that I registered his dismay and went on with my life just as I had been living it before - in flip flops and improper footwear.

Have I told you that I can't learn? Yeah - it's evident here.

Anyway - again, the guy was right. He's been on a real streak lately with his righteousness, which would be annoying if it weren't so life-enriching. I mean, first he teaches me how to make the best iced tea ever and now this? Now I'm a shoveler possessing super human strength?

Allow me to provide evidence to support my claim.

Ratty Santolina bound for the yard waste bin BEFORE Proper Shoes

DURING

And AFTER approximately 15 minutes.

These boots should come with a damn cape, is what I'm saying.

That job of digging out three very established and overgrown Santolina bushes would have taken me at least twice as long if I were in my normal yardwork footwear and perhaps three times as long plus a trip to the ER if I were in my footwear of choice - the mighty flip flop.

But no, I put on my steel toe, arch supporting, durable leather with the green wear indicator stripe having John Deeres and got that shit done.

And if a single one of you puts Git 'er Dun in the comments, I will brutally murder you. Really now, do not test me on this.

ANYWAY - these boots filled me with so much shoveling confidence that, after easily tearing out the Santolina without even damaging a single lady hoof, I went on a mad digging spree all drunk with the power of the boots and TAH DAH the overgrown and dying lavender are OUT and sitting at the curb waiting for Pinchy to come haul them away to Greenwaste.

You're so dead right now.

The grapes say THANK YOU FINALLY.

So yeah, proper shoes are now a thing that I understand.

Now that I can approach a big shoveling/digging/getting the EFF rid of yard shit project without the foreboding that comes from knowing that walking will be a tiring challenge for at least one week afterward.

OK, so I'm not entirely free of the Challenge of Walking, thanks to my impromptu super hero weeding session that followed this Let's Dig Everything Out of the Yard session, but that had nothing to do with shoveling. Or boots. Or super heroes, really.

If only John Deere made boots for my hamstrings somehow because YEOWCH.

I don't think I'll ever be in such good shape that weeding the yard won't render my hamstrings asunder.