I take an almost perverse pride in my thriftiness.
For instance, my pants begat shorts, which begat rags, which begat even raggier rags, which begat garbage.
I come by this propensity honestly.
The whole family is adept in the ways of frugality. My mother, for instance, sewed our clothes, canned our food, made our candles, and, in memories that are only coming back to me in bits and pieces this late in life, gave me my first and last home perm.
The whole family makes do, and we’re proud of it.
Things may have gotten out of hand over here in the Land of 10,000 Frozen Lakes, however.
And I can’t bring myself to do anything about it.
Let’s talk about my boots, shall we? They’re lovely boots, they’ve served and they’ve served well. One of them once borrowed me money and never once bugged me about when I’d be able to repay it.
Warm in the winter and stored away in the summer, the boots have been good to me.
But they’re old now. I’ve had these things for a good seven, maybe eight years; and one of the boots – not the one who borrowed me the money, by the way – has developed a hole in the heel.
This is fine, as it’s way too cold to worry about puddles; and the small, flat heels are still insulating my feet.
The problem is that pebbles have somehow found their way into the holes and are acoustically heralding my approach.
I sound like I have a set of maracas hidden in my pants.
It’s the end of an era for my old boots, but maybe it’s time to let them go and take home a new pair.
Makes me almost sad, you know?
Ol’ Left and Right, we hardly knew ye.
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