Chapter 1 - The Calgary Stampede

When my dad gave me his old cowboy boots back in February, I had no idea that I'd actually one day wear them. "I'm gonna miss these," he said with a horrible attempt at concealing his joy in finally getting rid of them.

He had bought a new pair, and at first I had no idea why; the boots I was trying on were in perfect condition. They were worn down to the point of being comfortable and looking authentic; they weren't shiny, as if some poser had bought them straight off the shelf at Lammle's Western Wear, along with a perfectly crisp and clean cowboy hat, a plaid shirt from Moore's and spotless, vivid blue jeans from American Eagle; looking like he'd just gotten off his leather chair, rather than off his dirty horse. As the boots popped on to my feet, I realized why my dad had bought a new pair for himself. Whether it was the light brown colour, the pointed toe, the too-high-of-a-heel, or a combination of some or all of these, I couldn't shake the feeling that these boots were ridiculously feminine.

"Uh, they're nice. Can I see your new ones?" I asked.

My dad pulled his new boots out of the oven. They were dark brown in colour, had a rounded toe and a much less prominent heel – in other words, they were opposite to mine and therefore masculine. Any hope I had left that my dad was being genuinely nice in giving me his old cowboy boots disappeared like a soap bubble popping out of existence. And just like the soap residue explodes into your eyes after such a popping, so the resonating womanliness coming from my feet painfully pierced my eyes until I had to force them shut for a moment.

I thanked my dad with the same genuineness he had offered me in passing along his old boots. I took these off, packed them into my suitcase, took them back to Montreal, put them in the back of my closet and never looked at them again until they had to be packed up once more. Upon getting back to Calgary, again they were shoved into the back of my closet, until I mournfully removed them from their grave for Stampede Week.

My work team had put me under the impression that they would all be participating in the one week fashion show, so I thought that I might as well do what I can to fit in, and just suck it up for five days. As I walked to work, the rhythmic clicking of my heels on the pavement procured a horrible image of myself walking down a runway with one foot in front of the other, my butt cheeks sexily shaking up and down. I made sure to look down and verify that my feet were far enough apart as I walked, but each time I did this the soap residue exploded back into my eyes until I couldn't stand it any longer and had to look away, only to have the image of my own bouncing ass pop back into my head. The walk that evolved out of this vicious circle of imagery was one with my feet exaggeratedly far apart from one another and my toes pointed slightly outwards, creating a bend in my knees. My hands were in my pockets as to monitor the movement of my behind, making sure that it wasn't bopping up and down as I feared. As I pathetically shuffled along in this manner towards the building, I saw a painted image of a cowboy on one of the downtown restaurant windows. His feet were far apart from one another, his toes pointed outwards, his knees bent, and if his hands weren't fitted with two guns, they'd be in his pockets.

And now I know why.

I got to my office; I and one other lady were the only two on my team dressed up in any way Western-style. Uh, great. I know I look like a total tool, but I was sort of counting on the fact that I wouldn't be the only one in the toolbox.

The shame!

Needless to say, I was seen walking around in normal clothing for the rest of the week.