Spurious Snow Boots and the Parachute of Doom!

Drum Roll: Hasty internet purchases have led me astray.  Apparently my much vaunted/lauded/anticipated snow boots are, in fact, Rain Boots.  A group of us (from my writing class) fortuitously ended up at the Annoyance Theater to catch a very mediocre show (more on that soon!)--and in all-new-social-situation glitz and glamour proceed to drink...a lot, and my buddy Brendan (from the class) handed me one of the most oblique, dejecting, hilarious talking-to's...maybe ever?  Outside of my outfit wigging him out: members only-looking suede jacket, black skinny levi's, aviator scarf and finally, a pair of rubber boots from Hunter, purportedly snow boots per my inept search on zappos.com, he incisively, like a goddamned surgeon shattered my entire logic and delusive state behind such an erroneous choice in winter wear.  And, he's right: they're not insulated, because they're fucking rain boots.  I'm new to the whole Snow Boot Game, and at 28 years old I've not the faculties to discern something that should have been an easy call.  Granted I was a few delerium/bourbon to the wind with a ginseng/pot-cookie chaser, so my sartorial-audacity hit much harder; the really rewarding part though: it was really fucking funny.  Hilarious.

I asked him, "So where do we go from here?"  And I meant it, because what does one do at this point.  I could have ran to the nearest computer, to ebay, some virtual-merchant and righted my wrong--but perhaps there's a better solution?  Nope.

I'm of a very confident ilk, and I can in kind of a...refreshingly defeated way, say I will not longer wear these boots.  This man made his point so well, without attacking, and some semblance of caring, that I find myself unable to look at them, walk in their direction or even hide them in their box, in great denial of my own idiocy.

"So what happens now?"

Dating continues its obtuseness in the wake of my breakup.  It's a little like eating a gourmet meal using only a fork and a straw to slurp my wine; and then there's some little impish creatures stabbing me with a homemade shiv, repeatedly, in the kidneys, and I'm not afforded to he luxury of reacting, or telling them to stop, nope, just keep taking it.  We''ve entered what I call the True Break-Up: the intermittent gaps in contact increasing, their breadth taking on new portents yet unseen in the purgatory/possible-reconciliation stage.  Reality.  And while there's no rejection involved when it comes down to it--refutation more like it--I can't help but feel my competitive strings being plucked, repeatedly; my own personal retribution, a mosaic, a fail-safe.  Jesus Christ,  I really hope I don't sound like John Updike, do I?

So this show: the best thing I can say was...It's a SHOW!   They put on a cohesive show, replete with costume changes and musical numbers; there were multiple characters; there were accents being employed; there was music (one of the better aspects!); there was swearing, and other such dirty humor.  My issue, albeit a very encouraging/motivating one: it wasn't very good.  But hey! it was packed and people laughed, not us so much, but they have  show @ The Annoyance on like a 7-week run--this is  terrific news!!!!!  Sign us up, now!  And I'll put my money where my virtual-blogging-mouth is, I'll put the my life savings and power of attorney to my estate (stop laughing!) on it too: because this is a viable, potentially major outlet I hadn't fully considered.  And if you think I'm brazenly handing myself some opportunistic torch in a fugue state of arrogance: you're right...save for the 'fugue' part.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxxooxoxoxoxoox

-m