Into each life some snow [so I'm paraphrasing, give me a break,] must fall. And if it does, you should be wearing boots, I think. So, with that in mind, last week I went to buy myself some new boots.
I am, if you didn't realize, a very delicate hot-house flower of a girl. I need tender loving care, and I wilt easily. Well, my feet do, anyway. In short, I have the world's most sensitive feet. The Princess who got black and blue from the pea? She has nothing on me. If I have a speck of lint under my foot, I will be sore for weeks. Thus, the proper fit is paramount in my shoe shopping expeditions.
I bought myself a pair of Bear Paw boots some years back. They are amazing boots - lined in sheepskin, warm and cozy suede exterior, just the right amount of chic, but still practical. Unfortunately, they are so comfort filled and attractive that my even more attractive adolescent swiped them out from under me, and now I no longer have the booted options available to me that I once did.
Thus, I headed off to procure another pair for myself, in a size that would make it uncomfortable for any other resident of my household to permanently borrow them.
I spied the coveted item at the store called Wild Pair, a trendy little boutique in my local mall. They are not inexpensive boots, but I will spare no expense to be certain that my tender feet walk unmolested by faulty footwear.
I should just say that I have never been to Wild Pair before. That is not a name that really shouts out to me that I belong there, seeing as how I could never be confused for something that belongs in a zoo. However, they had, in a bold display, the very boots I desired right in front of the door, and they drew me in like a rebel Starship caught in a tractor beam.
I tried on the perfect pair, excited to contemplate my newly booted appendages, and with great haste wrote my check and high tailed it out of there. I sped home to waterproof the sueded surfaces, so that I would be able to don them in the snow soon to arrive. The spray requires a substantial dry time, so I was going to be prepared for the upcoming onslaught.
I awaited the dawn with the kind of anticipation usually reserved for Santa related holidays. [I am trying to be seasonal here, otherwise I would obviously have mentioned my birthday.] I rushed to the kitchen to slide my feet into the cushy cloud that I knew would envelope my feet, and sat back to admire.
But no. It can't be. A flaw in the ointment. Or the boot top, really. I looked closer, well, really my neck briefly resembled a trombone slide as I maneuvered my eyes into the perfect range to take in the outrage now presenting itself to me, and saw that indeed, the eyes were not deceiving me. There was a slice, as from an errant knife, right across the top of the new boot.
I was desolate.
I attempted to rally from the blow, arguing with myself that I could live with it, it wasn't really a big deal, it wouldn't be a problem, REALLY. Then I took a step. The whole thing suddenly separated, like an earthquake in miniature, and there was a now a gaping gash across the top of my new boot.
I immediately called the store, girded for battle, anticipating an argument, expecting to have to defend myself from accusations of inappropriate knife usage at the very least. But no. The manager kindly said, "Bring them right in, and we'll get you a new pair immediately." Well, that certainly did take the edge off the anger, I must say.
I headed on up to the mall again, not a small trek, but since gas is back down out of the stratosphere, I can just barely afford to drive around again. I parked, I walked in with my box, I entered the door of the store, and they were... gone. I stood there looking at the display boot, thinking that it was a size smaller, but that's my small foot, and maybe I could make it work - when suddenly, here was the clerk. She apologized for taking so much time. Her boss was on the phone, and in this economy, if I had to choose between my boss and my customer, I'd pick the boss, too. So I told her no problem, showed her the boot, and she was rather surprised.
But she said, let me get you a new pair. So we got the new pair out of the box, checked them over carefully, you can be sure, and I even got a 25% discount. Which I promptly spent on a new waterproofing spray which is so high tech it only needs 30 minutes to dry.
I raced home, sprayed and sprayed again, and I was all excited to pull on my new boots and break them in. Snow was still on the ground, it was still icy cold outside, I had not missed prime boot wearing weather after all, and all was well in my world.
Except, of course, it's me. So naturally, there was a problem. When I pulled on my new boots the next morning, and I stood admiring their pristine loveliness, I suddenly realized that my foot hurt. It was a soft hurt, sort of an annoyance more than actual pain, and I told myself that I was dreaming. I was just having sympathy pains for the poor boot that would now never have a foot to hold. It couldn't possibly be that I would get another defective boot.
I barrelled forth into my day, wearing my boots, but becoming increasingly tense with each step, as I gradually lost all ability to deny, even to myself, that there was a problem with my new boot. Finally, I broke down and pulled off the boot, to find a toe so raw it was aching, and the nerves were jangling all the way up my leg. I knew it was not going to be a joyful moment, but shoved my hand down to the bottom, where the toe meets the top, and sure enough, there was the problem.
The lining of the brand new boot was bunched up and folded over, creating a riffle in the bottom of my shoe that was roughly equivalent to the Great Wall of China. Metaphorically speaking, of course.
I sighed. I said rats. I said uff da, the strongest epithet I can muster under stress. I got out the receipt and called the store, again, certain that this time they would have no more to do with me. I was going to be labeled a chronic whiner, and they would shut the gate and refuse me entrance.
But no. They said, bring it back in. Well, first the manager said, "Are you sure it isn't the toe box?" Well, ya, I'm pretty sure, since the lining is bunched up and folded over in one boot, creating a wall the size of the Great Wall.
So off I head to the mall once again, miserable that I will now have to emerge from the warm cocoon of my home into the cold, shod only in boots with holes in them. This is what I get for trying to be prepared, I was whining miserably to myself, as I drove my truck up to the mall once again, resentment etching a furrow into my brow. (Well, not really. I just wanted to use the word etch, and this seemed like a good time.) Mostly, I was just bummed to be making the drive for the third time in three days, which is more than I have been to the mall in the past three months. Or year. Or two.
I arrive at Wild Pair, expecting to at least have to explain myself, or to face a gauntlet of tough questions about what I did to their boot to make it defective, but no. Once again, they could not have been nicer to me. Honestly, its rather hard to be a curmudgeon when people are nice to you.
She felt the ridge, gave her opinion that it was certainly not going to be acceptable to have a boot with that kind of flaw, and went and got me a new box, apologizing for my inconvenience. In gratitude, I bought another item, this time boot cleaner for the long lost pair that seem to have shown up rather surprisingly often on the feet of one of my nearest and dearest, but a little worse for the wear.
Rest assured, I looked these boots over outside and IN, and just to be sure, I also wore them for about ten minutes in the store. When I had declared myself fully satisfied, I happily left with new boots in hand, a fully satisfied customer.
I recommend Wild Pair highly to anyone who wants to shop in a store that stands behind what they sell. I am impressed, to say the least, that they accepted my complaints without an excuse, simply exchanged them as requested, and even gave me a discount for my troubles. There are not many places where you can get that kind of customer service any more, and if it's important to you, then Wild Pair is your kind of place.
I brought my new boots home, sprayed them, waited overnight, and with slightly deflated expectations, pulled them onto my waiting extremities the following morning, wondering what might go wrong next. But no. I was once again surprised, this time to find that nothing at all was wrong. All is well in my booted world, and I am fully satisfied and walking on a cloud even now.
Leave it to me to find the two pair of defective boots that Bear Paw has ever made. Wild Pair has never had a pair returned before, they told me in amusement. I guess they just haven't dealt with a princess quite like me.
