I'll Never be a Cowgirl

In high school, I had two dear friends that went through a country western phase.  They attended Clay Walker concerts, bought Wrangler jeans, and marched their cowboy boots down the hallways of Harrison County High School almost everyday.  I never really understood this part of their lives, but adored them anyway, and still do to this day.  Still, I remained cowboy boot free. . . until this weekend in Nashville.

On my flight into the country music capital, I realized that (no wonder my bag was so light!) I had left my riding boots at home.  I planned to wear them over the weekend and really had no good alternate shoes packed.  Okay, I thought, I will buy my first ever cowgirl boots today.  My friend and I had flown in from Virginia for a work conference, so as soon as we checked into the hotel, we ventured out to do some shopping.  I realized quickly that boots are no cheap thing.  Everywhere we went, each pair was several hundred dollars.  Finally, I found- I've been told miraculously- a pair of Frye boots for half off.  They came in my size, fit when I tried them on, and came home with me.

The next morning, it was time to put on my new beauties.  A few minutes before my conference started, I slipped the left boot on but as I began pulling on the right boot, my foot would not fit down into the shoe.  I changed socks.  Nothing.  Sat down on the floor to pull.  Notta.  Took the boot off and tried to loosen up the leather.  Nothin' doin'.  Finally, I sent my roommate down to the meeting and told her I would meet her there, and for the next five minutes, I pulled and tugged and kicked and screamed until the boot was forcefully yanked onto my foot.  (I have sore arms and bruises on my hands to vouch for my efforts).  Those boots were on, dang it, and they weren't coming off.  Wait.  My boots weren't coming off.  We had to get on a flight home that night and my boots weren't coming off!

All day long, I agonized about what I would do when I got to the airport.  How would I get through security with boots that wouldn't come off?  I imagined TSA agents taking me into a back room to try their hand at my boot removal.  It wasn't going to be pretty.  Finally, our time to go to the airport arrived.  When I presented my boarding pass and license to the sweet grandmotherly agent, I whispered my dilemma in her ear.  "Tell 'em it's a medical issue," she said, "but don't tell 'em I told you that."  At that moment I did what any right-minded person would do, I began limping over to the security check.

"Sir, I'm nursing a sprained ankle and my foot has swollen in my boot.  I don't think I can get it off."  Which of course, wasn't a complete lie!  Because of my cowgirl boots, I endured a full body pat down last night, which I can assure everyone was not as bad as it sounds.  My liberties were not violated.  And my new boots finally did come off at 1:30 this morning when I got home, after lots of pulling and tugging from my good-natured husband.

I'll never be a cowgirl, friends.  But I did give it a heck of a try in Nashville.