Ode to Rubber Wear

Let’s see if that picture worked. Yes, look at that, a rubber boot! That is my next purchase. I am sick of coming to work with wet feet, and drenched pant hems that take forever to dry. I am wearing Hush Puppy ankle boots that claim to be water proof, but they are not, as I discovered after the past few morning soaker rainstorms we’ve had. 

A good test to see if your boots or shoes are waterproof is to walk in the rain for about an hour, through deep puddles and muddy paths that you can’t avoid, and see if your socks are dry when you remove them. Note: if the tag on the shoes reads Water Resistant, they will not stand up to this test! I don’t know why they bother with the water resistant promise, as that means it will only protect you against minor dampness, a dribble of H20, when in reality you have to deal with torrential rain or melting snow. 

And it ain’t a warm liquid substance either. The other night, I was running for the bus in the pouring rain, and the very bus I was running for drove through a massive puddle, sending a tidal wave of street water over me. I thanked the driver for the free shower as I boarded the bus, cheerfully, since it was dark and there was no way he could have purposefully done that. The look of shock on his face was priceless as he profusely apologized, and said he was only going twenty clicks. I just laughed and blamed it on bad timing. Needless to say, my feet were not dry when I got home.

My rubber-wear longing grew when I awoke the next morning to the sound of what sounded like pebbles pelting on my roof and the wind howling outside. I nervously peeked through my curtains to see if it was true. It was – the trees were being tossed about like a dog’s stuffed toy while the rain ripped through them.  I stayed clear away from the sidewalk edges as the bus lumbered towards me.  While riding, I noticed a young girl wearing a full suit of black rubber –  a long coat with matching pants and boots. I was envious as I felt the wetness of my umbrella by my feet soak through my pants. 

As I made my way through the woodsy, puddle-riddled path in the last leg of my walk to work, my socks and pants from the knees down were soaked right through. They took all day to dry; that’s from 9:00 am until 4:00 pm. I even had to remove my socks at around 2 pm because they were still cold and damp. I couldn’t get warm all day as a result of that dampness seeping through to my bones.  Now I have that cold back that I’ve been faithfully fighting for the last week-and-a-half with Cold FX. The remedy is working, but boy is it fighting. My cold just kind of hovers in my head, slightly pressurizing, swelling, aching, phlegming, dripping, but not the full-fledged killer of a raging head cold. Now it seems to be leaving, but that could change in about an hour after an unexpected wet sneeze erupts. 

I went to the Shoe Warehouse after work last night to try to find the coveted galoshes, but had no luck.  I wouldn’t have been caught dead in these kind of boots five years ago, and would have turned my nose at the sight of them in a store instead of searching for them like gold in a mine tunnel. You know you’re getting old when you actually shield yourself against the elements.  In my twenties, I used to wear a plunging V-necked, unlined, short leather jacket, mini-skirt, thin nylons, shoes, no mittens or scarf, in a -15 degree Ontario winter with snow on the ground and a windchill factor hovering in the air.  I didn’t care if I froze, as long as I looked sexy. That was enough to keep me warm. 

Now at the age of 37,  I can courageously leave the house with my hair unwashed (I wash it every other day now, to prevent dryness), a thick hat on my head, a long, buttoned-up coat (yet still stylish – I’m not eighty yet), waterproof boots, and fleece-lined gloves. If there’s ice and snow, I’m terrified of slipping, and need to wear boots with good treads. Funny how  in that decade leading up to my third, I never fell while traipsing in my treacherously narrow, smooth-bottomed black leather shoes I wore in the dead of winter.  Instead, as fate would have it, at the ripe age of 32, I slipped on an invisible tiny patch of ice resulting from a dripping eaves-trough hanging over a set of wooden stairs.  My treadless sneaker-clad feet were at eye-level as I landed smack on my tender tailbone. Bruised and bedridden for a week, I vowed to start wearing winter footwear.

The ice has melted and rain storms are settling in. I care more about the warmth and dryness of my feet than the elegant fashion factor of my high-heeled boots.  Maybe I should get something to shield my face from those brutal winds, like one of those ski hats with holes for the eyes, nose and mouth, or . . . .  No, like I said above, I’m not eighty yet and will retain some dignity to brave the cold. Until my immune system is so weak that I have no choice. Or I could buy a frickin’ car. That’s another thousand word blog entry.