I'm a person who attempts to use every last ounce of everything, whether leftovers in the fridge or scraps of scratch paper. I'm not sure whether this stems from frugality or obsessives-compulsiveness. I squeeze tubes of toothpaste until they're flattened. I pump detergent from containers that seem to have none. I meld the smallest slivers of soap onto new bars.
I take great pleasure in using things up and holding out on replacing a product until I can say with certainty that its essence has been extracted.
In this vein, although my fashion sensibility has been prompting me to integrate boots back into my wardrobe ever since the semester started, my practical side has urged me to wear my warm-weather clothes and shoes for as long as possible. I'm tethered by a sense of responsibility. Extract every possible ounce of summer. Don't prematurely jump into the next season!
Incidentally, boots don't listen to practicality. (Well, technically, boots don't listen at all. They're boots.) Still, I've discovered that this otherwise inanimate form of footwear has a surprising ability to call to you from the back of your closet, pleading to be worn with a cute skirt, skinny jeans, or casual leggings.
Until this point, I've demonstrated great restraint. Early September? Not yet. Early September is merely an extension of August. Mid September? Hold off a little longer. What about the first day of fall? That would be fitting. Poetic even! No, it's still warm. Keep waiting.
But now we've already settled over a full week into fall. The sidewalks on campus are festively littered with leaves that fall like confetti, and no one can deny the chill in the air each morning and evening.
It's time. Oh yes, I've waited long enough. Gratification will be delayed no longer. I've granted myself official permission to wear boots.
Photo compliments of SG_Design (flickr.com)