I wanted the black leather knee-high boots. Oh, how I wanted them. Chic, elegant, sexy. I needed them. But doubt crept into my mind. My calves – what if they’re too big? What if I break the zipper trying them on? I glanced around the shoe department. No one was watching. If disaster struck, I could put the boot back in the box and meander over to the lingerie section, acting the part of an innocent woman enjoying an afternoon shopping without the children.

I kicked off my shoe and slipped my foot into the soft leather. So far, it was a perfect, comfortable fit. Now for the hard part, the part that might break my heart. I leaned forward, held my breath, and guided the zipper slowly, my eyes closed, too afraid to watch. Up over the ankles the zipper glided, northward, to my tensed calf. Please fit, I begged. A moment later, triumph – the supple leather clung to my leg, lovingly, not desperately.

I stared down at the foot mirror, uncertain for a moment if it was my own leg’s reflection I saw. Damn, if it didn’t look good. Behold the tiny ankle and well-defined calf that looked perfectly fabulous. This was the moment I’d been waiting for – the stubborn baby weight finally was gone. I was back and I was looking good.

After a few more minutes of studied admiration – front view, side view, pretend-I’m-mid-stride-view – I heard the voice. It wasn’t a sales clerk, or a friend, or even my mother. It was her. The wet blanket, the voice of reason, the inner critic who counsels practicality over vanity, joy, and impulsivity. “Where on earth would you wear those?” she whispered. “To the preschool? To your son’s basketball practice? Please tell me you won’t wear them to the grocery store.”

She was right. If anyone saw me in these boots, they’d think midlife crisis, or affair, or, or, or who knows what else.

But, I’ve wanted them for so long, I argued back.

“Then buy them. You and I both know you won’t wear them. You’ll feel too self-conscious, like you’re trying to prove you’re something you’re not.”

I could wear them to work, I shot back, already feeling like I was on the losing end of the argument.

“You work out of your house. When’s the last time you had to go into the office?”

About a year ago, I conceded.

“Right, well, I dare you to buy them. They’re the perfect suburban housewife footwear, aren’t they?” she taunted.

I shook my head and squeezed my eyes shut. I was not going to cry in the middle of a department store. They were just stupid boots, for heaven’s sake. I yanked the zipper down past my oversized calf, shoved the boot back in the box, slid my foot into a ratty old flat, and headed for the children’s department.

Maybe someday, I thought, with a wistful glance back. Someday, I’ll buy fabulous, impractical boots, and I’ll wear them to the post office, or maybe to the pediatrician. Or to a classroom Halloween party. Maybe the mothers in their sweats and dumpy jeans will look at me and think that I have it all together, that I’m confident and accomplished. Maybe. But for now, the boots remain on the rack.