Must have Bogs

Consumerism is rife with risk and disappointment, especially those “as seen on television” products, though I must confess I do have a particular fondness for my Slap-Chop.
They (again, who are these “they” people?) don’t say caveat emptor for nothing (buyer beware, in case your Latin is a little rusty).
For months and months I pined and longed for a pair of Bogs; I coveted them. I confess it right here, right now: I wanted a pair of Bogs.
I tried them on in several stores, strolled up and down the aisles of the hiking section, telling myself all kinds of things about how these boots would make life feel better; these boots would keep my feet safe and warm.
My feet would be happy in these boots. Happy feet, happy me.
I preferred the cheerful lime green, but due to my lack of patience and the limited stock in the store of my choice, the purple paisley had to do. Luckily, purple paisley came in a close second to the green.
After several days of guilt-ridden deliberation, I coughed up an exorbitant amount of cash to have my very own pair of Bogs. I drove home confident that my purchase would airlift my feet with warmth and comfort.
I never again would have aches and pains where my feet were concerned, and wearing them might even solve world hunger. My confidence in this boot knew no limit.
It was a sunny day, but fall. It was October and boots met the allowed—and even required—dress code. I pulled my Bogs on. My feet slid deep into their plush comfort. I strolled outside to the barn feeling particularly smug. I may have strutted.
“I’ve got my Bogs,” I chanted in my head. “Got my Bogs, my very own Bogs.” Strut, strut.
I flashed them for the pony. No response. But he’s not easily impressed and he’s a no-shoes kind of guy—prefers to go barefoot, au naturelle.
I walked down to the gravel pit behind our property to steal birch trees; little ones, most of them only about 12 inches tall. I prefer to think of it as rescuing trees from the rock-crushing enterprise going on there, but either way, the trees were leaving their existing home to go to mine without exchange of cash.
Let’s call it an adoption.
?The pain started out as a sting in my right heel, a noticeable discomfort that soon gave way to an outright ouch.
“Are you limping?” David inquired.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I lied. “These are Bogs.” And I gave him a look as if he had gone slightly mad.
He shook his head as if he wasn’t buying anything I was selling. I tried to cover up the hobble in my gait, and the strutting was nowhere in sight.
I thought of any number of things to blame. Stephen Harper, Murphy and his law, my ill-shaped feet, the poor quality of socks I had chosen for this first expedition of the Bog variety. Nothing helped.
Truth was this particular right-foot-Bog was substandard; its seam digging in to the flesh on the back of my heel, tearing the skin off from my heel right up past my ankle.
I was considering throwing myself on to the ground and wailing and kicking my feet, but that had never ever worked. Not when I was six and certainly not now when I am not six. Instead, I taped opened parts of the aloe vera plant to the back of my foot and leg, and covered it with bandages.
I gave the boot a good hefty kick into the corner and grimaced at it. I thanked my left foot for surviving. But at no point in my dismay did I ever consider taking the stupid boots back and complaining righteously about their failed value.
I just sucked it up.
Now I make sure I have thick socks and bandages on my right heel now. How stupid am I?
The madness of consumerism.

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