The Brat, The Boots, and the Barefoot Prophet

As I sit down to write this blog, I’ve realized there’s been an overarching trend in my last few entries… I am an incredible brat.

This is true when I read each blog individually. It’s also true when I zoom out and read the overall narrative of my writing since we first blew up on Reddit. I met an amazing guy when I was the ripe age of thirteen, and I’ve spent nearly every day since being an absolute pain in the ass.

I’m thirty-four now.

I write a lot of these blogs almost like diary entries. I try to make them entertaining for the people who read them, but a big part of why I write is to have a record of this season of our lives. Sometimes that season is big and exciting and a lot of people can sympathize or empathize with me. Other times I come across as a bratty, boring housewife who doesn’t appreciate how good she has it.

After this long preamble, this blog will be the latter.

One of the things that has always driven me crazy about my husband is how he can have 30,000 irons in the fire, but instead of panicking about how he’s going to manage the next task — and then the task after that — he somehow tunes everything down and philosophizes. About things as random as 1980s skateboard culture or the impact of Lake Powell being at historic lows. (I know this because I’ve seen his search history.)

He learns what he feels like he needs to know, catalogs it in his brain for future reference, and moves on.

I, on the other hand, spend most of my days with my brain bouncing around like: “School pickup at 3:15. Order birthday present for my sister. Dentist appointment tomorrow — wait, that was last week.” On and on and on.

One of the things Bubs spends an inordinate amount of time thinking about is the human foot.

Yes. I said that correctly. The human foot.

When we were in college there was a huge trend that emerged — inspired by the book Born to Run — and Bubs is still very much a devoted disciple. The general idea is that modern footwear has more or less ruined human physiology and the more often we can go barefoot (or wear minimal shoes with no padding, arch support… or comfort), the better off we’ll be.

This is also when he started running insane miles on a near-daily basis — and maybe the barefoot gods are onto something. Aside from the occasional dumb decision (read: climbing a tree to show off for the kids), he’s been injury-free.

I cannot even begin to tell you what it was like trying to find my place as a freshman in college, bragging about this incredible boyfriend I had… and then watching him walk up with no shoes on.

Bubs, sir, we are in Texas. We do not go for that hippie nonsense here.

I promise I’m going somewhere with this.

Now, Bubs certainly wanted me to follow him into the barefoot/minimalist movement, but he’s not controlling, so he never forced it on me. And honestly, I think I got lucky. Since I was a kid, my go-to daily footwear has been Vans slip-ons. They’re not “barefoot purist” approved, but they’re simple enough to save me from a lecture about the impact they have on my gait.

But I am a girl. And sometimes I just want to look cute.

This past Wednesday I had a dentist appointment (yay! I remembered!) and I really felt like stepping out of my SAHM uniform of yoga pants and Bubs’ old baseball hoodie. I was going to see adults. I wanted to look like an adult.

I got up early, showered (a morning shower? Danielle, you wild woman), did my makeup, did my hair, and put on one of my old teaching outfits from Anthropologie… along with a pair of high-heeled boots I haven’t worn since college.

I looked myself up and down in our full-length mirror and it was quite the ego boost.

It got even better. One of the kids’ teachers said, “Oh my God, I love your dress! And those boots are so cute!” as I walked them in. The receptionist at the dentist’s office added, “Those boots are adorable!” Then both the hygienist and the dentist complimented my entire outfit.

I was in heaven.

When I got home, I wasn’t even close to ready to stop feeling pretty, so I did all my daily chores looking like a put-together woman. I even remember thinking, “Those 1950s housewives with coifed hair and pearls must have been onto something. I feel like a million bucks.”

What I was not willing to admit was that my feet were killing me. I had hot spots forming on the pads of both feet and a huge one on my left big toe.

Power through, Dani. Ride this cuteness wave.

All well and good until I got back from picking up the kids from school and could barely walk. When we got inside, I flopped onto the couch and had Abby and TJ help me pull off the boots and socks.

When the socks came off, both kids looked absolutely horrified. The hot spots had turned into blisters the diameter of coffee mugs, and the one on my toe was full of blood.

I was truly out of commission for the evening — if not longer.

I texted Bubs that I was exhausted and would do naughty things for him if he picked up Raising Cane’s on the way home. Little did he know I was in no position to deliver on those promises.

I also briefed the kids: “Guys, we aren’t going to lie to Dad, okay… but we also don’t need to volunteer that I wore boots from the back of the closet that haven’t seen the light of day in twelve years.”

About an hour later, Bubs walked in — everyone’s hero — with a mountain of chicken tenders, crinkle fries, and that amazing sauce.

He looked at me, feet propped up on the chaise, blanket covering the damage, and asked if I was okay.

Just as I was about to say, “Of course. Just super busy today — and, you know, time-of-the-month swelling,” my little myna bird TJ chirped up:

“She wore boots from college, Dad! You should see her blisters!”

And then I got the look.

The look of a man who doesn’t give a shit if people think he’s weird for wearing Tarahumara running sandals in the mall — or at Thanksgiving. The man who wears leather “dress” shoes with almost no sole made by a company that calls themselves “The Elves” (not a joke — Google Softstar).

He lifted the blanket and winced just as dramatically as the kids had.

“Dani. I bought you those Merrells. Or the Softstars. Or what’s wrong with your Vans? Did you walk a marathon in these boots today?”

And this is where I would love to tell you that I looked him dead in the eyes and said, “You were right.” That I surrendered gracefully. That I acknowledged the wisdom of minimalist footwear and apologized to my metatarsals.

Reader, I did not.

Instead, I muttered something about “normal women wanting to look cute sometimes” while he gently — too gently — poked one of the blisters like it was a science experiment. He also gave me the look...again. 

Here’s the thing, though.

He was right.

And that’s what makes it worse.

Because I don’t actually want a husband who doesn’t think deeply about random things. I don’t want a husband who panic-scrolls and stress-spirals and lives in the same constant mental checklist that I do. I like that he can have 30,000 irons in the fire and still pause to consider the biomechanics of the human foot or the cultural impact of 1980s skateboarders.

I just don’t always enjoy being the case study.

I love that he doesn’t bend for trends. He decided in 2010 that modern footwear was a scam and hasn’t wavered since. I love that he applies that same stubborn conviction to jobs, fitness, parenting, and life in general.

I just occasionally wish that conviction didn’t result in my children gasping in horror at the sight of my toe.

The truth is, I can’t cherry-pick his personality.

I can’t have the discipline without the lectures.
I can’t have the abs without the miles.
I can’t have the “yeah, so?” confidence without the foot dissertations.

If I want the man who calmly builds a life with quiet certainty, I also get the man who owns more pairs of anatomically responsible shoes than any person should.

So yes, I was bratty.
Yes, I told the kids we didn’t need to volunteer certain details.
Yes, I tried to blame “time-of-the-month swelling” before TJ sold me out like a federal informant.

But at the end of the night, he still brought home Raising Cane’s.
He still examined my feet like a concerned podiatrist.
And tomorrow morning he’ll lace up something that looks like a leather napkin tied to his foot and go run before the sun comes up.

The boots are back in the closet.
The blisters are healing.
And I remain, apparently, an incredible brat.

Honestly?

He knew that at thirteen.