“Can you be in love with an inanimate object?” I asked.

“In love with said object? Or just love it?” imaginary friend replied.

“In love. Like giddy. Lovesick. I miss them when I’m away.”

“Well, I don’t know. I mean, can you procreate with this thing?”

“God, I wish I could. We need more of them in the world.”

“Alright, enough of the elusive banter. What the hell is it?” (Even imaginary friends lose their patience).

And so I describe them. In all their full, beautiful glory. The perfect height…not too high, not too low. The way they hug (but not too tightly) my chicken calves. The soft, supple skin…the perfect shade of dark bronze. The subtle curves, dressy, but not too. Sexy, but in a naive, teasing manner. Engaging and alluring to men and women alike. They are, quite possibly, the most perfect pair of boots ever created. And they are mine. In brown suede…and black (I’m no dummy).

First, let me thank the Academy. And then Michael Kors for his expert design insight and ability to sell in bulk to DSW (so that I can afford said perfect foot ornamentation).

“I’m intrigued. Can I see them? I must see them,” imaginary friend coos.

“I can’t.”

“What?  Why?”

“I’m afraid you’ll go out and buy them. And I can’t have that.”

“Because…”

“Because last weekend…when I wore the boots with my new cute knit dress…”

“That is a cute dress. Where’d you get that?” she interrupts.

“Not telling. So, as I was saying…last weekend, when I wore the boots, I was told - by a married man…a respectable one…one who doesn’t cheat…”

“Does that exist?”

“Quit interrupting. Yes, they do exist. And he told me that I needed to walk away. That the combo of the knit dress and the amazing boots was ‘dangerous’.”

“Oooooh!”

“Uh huh.  Dangerous.  Because they’re so…well, perfect.  I saw people staring at them. A big guy…looked like an oafy football player - you know, the kind who wouldn’t know fashion from fiddle playing?”

“Yeah, I know him. I think I used to date him.”

“Well, he yelled across a patio full of people.”

“What’d he say? Did he wanna know the score of the Texas game?”

“No, this was Friday night.”

“Oh.”

“He said, ‘Hey - kick ass boots!’…and he was with a table of girls. And they started ogling them, too. There were high-pitched squeals involved.”

“And now you don’t want anyone else to have these magic boots…because you’re drunk on their power.”

“Yes.”

“You would be an awful monarch.”

“I know. I like the attention too much. I’d come to expect it. Maybe even demand it.”

“But you’re a kind person. You’re an amazing friend. You’ve always put others before yourself.”

“I’m not showing you the boots.”

“Bitch.”

“Yes.  Now, where did I put that damn crown?”

In many ways, I am my father’s daughter. The dry sense of humor, the slightly hooked nose, and the tendency, in certain areas of my life, to be a ‘creature of habit’. I balance that last trait out with a tendency, as well, to be a ridiculous dreamer, open and searching for new experiences. As most of us are, I am a dichotomy…and in the areas where my ‘creature of habit’ psychoses poke out their little heads, it’s possible I can be a bit, well, rigid. Don’t judge. It is for good reason.

For example, today I went to get a much-needed pedicure (a luxury I’ve become addicted to since my days in NYC). I decided, before going in, that this time, I was going to mix things up. Step away from my nail polish rigidity. Try to inject a little bit of the dreamer into an area I’ve kept it hidden. And so I scanned the rows and rows of choices. My eyes continued to move past my old favorite - a color the perfect mix of red and pink, with a dash of sparkly orange. But I held strong, and finally settled on a brighter orange-red. After the ‘nail specialist’ pried if from my nervous hands, I sat back to enjoy the calf massage and read about the details of Jennifer Garner’s pregnancy.

Now I’m home, and, I gotta be honest. I’m not liking the color. It doesn’t have the same sheen. It won’t go as well with my blue dress.  And I want to wrap my own nuckles for doubting my instincts.  Forgive me, my perfect mix of red, pink and orange. You will adorn me again in approximately three weeks. I apologize for my infidelity…I was drunk.

I’m off to view more Olympics. The women’s (or severely growth-stunted girl’s) gymnastic team is going for the gold, and I must cheer them on.  It’s gonna be a nail-biter.  A perfectly manicured nail-biter.