These boots were made for walking...in chicken hockey?

One of the top priorities for Momma on The Crew's visit was to find boots.

Not just any boots.

Rubber boots.

Rubber boots with zebra print.

Rubber boots with zebra print to wear on muddy days to the chicken pen.

Because you know how judgemental those hens can be.  If she doesn't look good, she will be the talk of the hen-house.

We searched high and low, near and far for such boots.

Finally, at our last stop, our quest was over.

There they were. Perfect. And perfectly priced.

We searched madly for a size 9. There were none.

We asked a sales-lady to get the last pair off the top shelf.

Size 7.

In manic desperation we sorted through the ones we had already deemed too small or too large. Just as we had given up hope, the first pair we had looked at had transformed into the perfect size.

It was just like Cinderella.

And because I was shopping with my Momma, of course I got to pick a pair too.

This is not the only time Momma and I have been on a quest for boots. Oh, no.

Several years ago I was determined to find Momma a pair of go-go boots.  We found many boots that were were stylish enough.  That was not the problem. 

The problem was the loss of vascular circulation.

These boots were like putting on control top panty hose that were 2 sizes too small. Made of leather.

At that point in my life, young and naive as I was, I was certain that somewhere in this giant supply-and-demand world we could find boots that would fit the legs wearing them.

Poor Momma.

She had zipper indentions on the side of her legs for weeks.

Every store.

Every boot.

Momma was surrounded in a sea of boxes and tissue paper.

Do you know what does not help squeezing a calf into a boot?

Sweat.

Do you know what does not help squeezing a calf out of a boot?

Sweat.

There we were, in the middle of a department store, our size 2 sales-lady gone to find us another pair of boots and we are stuck.

Not figuratively.

As Momma's pinkie toe is turning blue, we can't get her loose from the non-zippered boot I made her try.

It was stretchy. It was logical at the time.

Now it was comical.

Two women playing tug of war with a foot. I was holding her foot while Momma held on the the bench lest she was to go flying across the floor.

After a few minutes of hysterical laughter and a few seconds of panic *SLURP*

Her foot was free of the leather death-grip. 

Her toes lost their cyanosis and regained their pink appearance.

Eventually she did find a pair but I think it was only to satisfy me and to save her abused legs.