The thing I’ve learned about boots is … you can either pull off the look or you can’t.  There’s no gray area. 

I met a woman once who refused to call her husband a hillbilly.  She referred to him instead as a Hillwilliam.  Seems her husband, while highly educated, still did inane things like mow the lawn wearing shorts and cowboy boots.  But, because he had a college degree, hillbilly was an incorrect moniker.  Hillwilliam, schmillwilliam … wearing cowboy boots with shorts is stupid.

All my friends have a pair of cowboy boots in their arsenal.   Of course, a majority of my friends also enjoy the rodeo, living on farms and wearing Wranglers.  I, myself, do not.  I see cowboy boots as a fashion statement only.  It’s a statement I don’t look good in, so I choose not to wear them.  My ass has an ass.  Wearing cowboy boots would only accentuate that I am trapped in the body of a black girl.

I used to have a big clodhopper pair of Doc Marten-esque boots.  Each shoe easily weighed 25lbs, I swear.  Note to self.  The mafia could start using them to complete their sleeps-with-fishes routine.  That pair of boots didn’t last long because by the end of the day I felt like I had polio.  They looked good though.

In my latest episode of “What The Chic”, I quickly learned how to mix and match some mighty righteous footwear.  These boots weren’t just made for walking, they were made for kicking ass and taking names.

On a recent trip to NY, I broke down and bought a pair of brown half-boots.  They looked cool … semi trendy and semi badass.  And I say semi because it literally looks like someone chopped the boot in half.  It’s more of a shoeboot.  A “shoe-tie”, as they call it.  I’m not sure where or when I’ll wear them, however.  (Guatemalan cotillion?  Herding sheep?  A fashion show in Paris … uh, Texas?)  But the fact of the matter is, these boots made the man.  They also made a blister the size of Poughkeepsie, but whatever.  It’s better to look good then feel good … or have the ability to walk.