Today is my birthday.
I woke up giddy because I knew the day ahead held this great promise: I can wear my new cowboy boots to church.
An unusual thrill, I know, for a woman who is now fully into … ahem… middle age. But then I’m quite sure you’d feel the same if you saw these fine kicks, chosen by and given to me for my birthday by my sweet husband.
I love him for choosing a gift that is such an outrageous indulgence—an indulgence not just because they are really nice, but because there is simply no way to rationalize such a purchase. You see, I already own brown cowboy boots. In fact, I own four other pairs.
There. I said it. Five pairs of brown cowboy boots.
(My dear friend Teresa Coles will say you need only consider the CPW — Cost Per Wear. And I will certainly wear the heck out of these boots.)
He knows about the boot collection, my husband does, and still he presented these. As practical as he is, I know he did it simply because he knew it would make me ridiculously happy.
I love a love like that.
30 Days of Grace