Trying on ski boots is worse than trying to find a good bra. Seriously. I’ve never been so stressed out while shopping. Buying ski boots isn’t like buying a pair of cheap shoes at the store. They are a hundreds-of-dollars investment that usually should be good for at least 10 years. Okay, maybe not everyone has their pair for that long, but you get my meaning.
My old purple Solomons have been in my boot bag for the past 12 years. Yeah, I know its time for a new pair. I put new Superfeet liners in them several years back, and they are still fairly comfortable. The problem is, when I was 20, I was also a half shoe size bigger and the boots fit perfect. Why is it when you loose weight you loose it in your feet before your butt? Now when trying to turn around moguls and hit the powder, my heel lifts and my feet twist inside the boot. Not good.
A few weeks ago I finally got the courage to go boot shopping. I thought, “today is the day I’m going to walk out with a new pair of awesome ski boots that will last me a decade.” Somewhere I hear sinister laughing as I type these words, and the voice of skiers’ past mocking me.
Of course I can’t do this kind of shopping by myself. I must take my husband with me. If I’m going to have “fun” then so is he. We headed to a ski specific shop close to our house where the guys knew what they were doing. My foot was measured, the width taken, and then the boots were brought out. (Dun dun dun..a scary door slams).
I felt like Goldilocks, trying out beds. “How about this one?” “No it’s too big.” “How about this one?” “No it’s too small.” I can feel that I’m wearing the shop guy down. Doesn’t he know he’s dealing with a woman? “What about these?” “No, I don’t like the color and why do they look like a fifth grader got to use a bejeweler and decorate them?” I’m told to just wear them for awhile and see how they feel. I ask Jared, “do these ones look okay?”
Minutes pass, and my feet go numb. I don’t think these are the ones for me. I’m handed a pair of Roxy boots and was told by the clerk, “these are the only other ones in your size you haven’t tried on.” If these don’t work, I’ll have to go somewhere else and try boots on. The pressure is on. I have to like these boots, because I don’t want to go anywhere else. Please let them work. I try them on. They feel fine, so I say, “I’ll take them.” Jared keeps asking me, “are you sure these are the ones? Are they better than your old boots?” I don’t know. I’m totally starting to second guess myself. We buy them anyway.
A week later, I take the ugly new orange boots to the resort where I put the Roxys on, look at my husband, and say, “I don’t think I like them. They feel kind of big. Can we take them back?” He was wearing his goggles at the time so I’m not sure if his eyes rolled or not.
The boots were returned, money in hand, and I’ve yet to be brave enough to head back to the store and try on some boots. Maybe my Solomons and I are destined to be together FOREVER.
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