Bunion Hell!

I bought some boots a few weeks ago. I did that classic: I love these boots, they are half price, they feel tight, but I bloody love these boots and they will love me back by stretching to my needs. Next thing I know I’m asking partner to pay for them. It almost seemed too easy. I hadn’t gone looking for boots, but way back at Christmas my little sister had looked fabulous in a pair of suede ankle boots matched with jeans and as soon as I saw her, I had it on my radar that I needed a pair of boots in my armory,  just like hers. So here they were – it was meant to be.

For weeks they sat in their box, because what I had actually forgotten, is that I wear a dobok and track suits every day and I very rarely get the chance to wear little suede boots. After several weeks, I removed the lid of the box so that I could admire them on waking and before going to bed each night and lust after the evening that they would make their debut.

Well last Friday, that evening came. I threw off my workwear, donned a pair of skinny jeans and slid into my little suede boots. I paraded around the house, seeking approval from daughters and daughters’ friends. I even asked partner to show his love of the boots. I wanted people to be jealous of just how damned good they looked. (Apparently when we look into a mirror, our brain never allows us to see a true image of ourselves, which explains why we may quite happily leave the house looking a bit shit). However, tonight I felt confident that I didn’t look shit. I felt sure that these boots were hot and other people knew it.

We arrived at our destination: just one flight of stairs between me and a gin and tonic. Well I can tell you, it wasn’t the stairway to heaven – the warning bells began to ring out about the boots. It started as a slight pinch and by my second G&T, it had scaled up to a dull ache. Oh bollocks! I exclaimed to partner, as the reality of the ease with which I purchased my boots, came flooding to the fore: I’d forgotten about my bloody bunions! They run in the family, I should have remembered I had them. I can tell the weather by the my bunions, my little sister once told me: a dull ache means rain is on its way. By now my pain had progressed beyond a dull ache, so I knew that something worse than rain was about to hit. I shifted from foot to foot, the pain escalating in the same way as childbirth: from Braxton Hicks to fuck, get me the sodding gas and air right now, or I am going to die!! Partner was chatting away merrily to a friend. I was attempting the odd smile and nod, whilst inwardly I was thinking that if I didn’t remove the boots sharpish, something bad was going to happen. I finally got his attention and suggested we left the party. He looked a little confused, but the word, ‘bunion’ is such an ugly little devil – it makes one sound old and gnarled, so I muttered something about the dogs – they have replaced the kids as my excuse to leave somewhere. When I got to the car and released my bunions from those bunion busting boots, I felt like I had orgasmed…I sighed like I’d had the mother of all orgasms. The tension was finally released.

I entered the house bare footed and daughter 1 asked how the evening had gone and why I had taken off my boots. Well, I replied. You told me that you liked them earlier and that you would love a pair yourself, so you can have these bloody boots. She gave me a look: the look that says: earlier mum, I was lying to you because you were so pleased about your boots and I wanted you to feel good. Well next time, I thought to myself, next time a purchase seems that little bit too easy and spontaneous, I shall remember to engage my brain and hopefully, as long as I don’t look into a mirror, the truth will prevail.

The bunion busting boots (appearances can be deceiving)