Sometimes all it takes to make me happy are some brand new work boots against a brick floor in close company with a filigreed wall.
I'm drawn to this style of work boot (these happen to be Sebago that he's just breaking in) because they're seminal to my youth. Teens of every ten-year age group adopt a boot that represents their ... I'm gonna say it... zeitgeist. (I feel bad about using that word but experience has shown I can get over all sorts of journalistic crimes) The cohort before me chose Frye harness boots as their shoe mascot, and the group after did those flat floppy semi-pointy toed boots like Robin Hood wore. Or hi-top LA Gear sneakers -- feel the burn! At the 1970s convention, which I did not attend because I was busy nerding it up in AP Biology gosh, a committee decided to go ahead with mullets, bellbottoms, Qiana knit, mauve, curling irons and construction boots, usually in a buckskin color with the iconic white sole and stitching. Of that list, the only item I was able to score even remotely within the statute of limitations was the boots. I wore them with my Wrangler jeans. And a floral cotton blouse with Peter Pan collar, tucked in to the jeans. Since I was unjustly cheated out of those other elements of style, I've pursued them with unreasonable zeal now because I can do whatever I want, gosh. Every time I see work boots like this, I think they are so so happening. And I think about ciliates.