I wish I hadn’t sold my cowboy boots. They were comfortable, great for country dancing, and very Texan. Yet, I have to be honest, as there was only a short time in my life when I was a pseudo-cowgirl. Actually, I was a weird mix of urban-girl-wanna-be-but-not-too-much-cowboy trying to fit in, but never really could. I had fun though, and sometimes I kind of miss it.
But eight years ago when we were selling stuff before moving from Texas to the UK, I sold my black cowboy boots. I didn’t think I’d need them. They had a lot of memories attached to them, especially the time I went through that boot scootin’ phase (unfortunately I went through a lot of ‘phases’ in that weird, more than 10 years of insecurity, season of my life).
Boot scootin'? What’s that you ask?
Well, here is a short excerpt from my book about it:
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‘The boot scootin’ cowgirl phase lasted a couple of years. It started when I was looking for a new fling, and my friend Anna told me about a great scene to meet men. Numerous times, I tagged along with Anna and her boyfriend. His name was Bubba; I never knew that living people would actually name their child Bubba until I met him, but of course this was Texas, and anything can happen in Texas.
I went to a few rodeos, but my favourites were the country/western dancing bars. It was different, and more romantic, than the world of clubbing, and I loved the element of dance. Not that I could ‘kicker dance’, but you didn’t need to if your partner could and was able to lead. I even braved the local country/western clothing store, bought a few pairs of skin-tight, pocketless Wrangler jeans along with a midnight-black pair of leather cowboy boots. But I had to stop at the belt buckle – it crossed the line, especially the big shiny three-inch wide ones stamped with redneck’, an eagle or a large pair of antlers; those were too ‘cowboyish’.
At the western bars, everyone would slosh down a beer or five, and nice girls would settle for wine coolers, cheap fruity wine spritzers, as places called the ‘Texas Tumbleweed Saloon’ weren’t cultured enough to have real wine.
Anna and I sat at the wooden picnic bench that could have held at least 20 people. I wore my leather boots and crunched the open peanut shells scattered across the floor with the pointed toe. Bubba’s cousin had come with us, and he was showing his cousin the electric slide dance moves in the roped off area in front of us. I picked at the remains of my T-bone steak and scraped the last of my potato out of its skin. I was ready to start dancing with the next person who asked.
Two men approached the table as I took another swig of my raspberry cooler. One wore a white cowboy hat and black Wrangler jeans. The other wore a brown hat, with leather trim.
‘Y’all here lookin’ fer some partners ter dance with?’ The one with the brown hat winked at me.
‘Depends on what you boys can do out there,’ I said as I stood to show off my figure.
‘Ma’am,’ the brown-hat cowboy said to me. ‘Can I int’rest you in a boot scootin’ dance?’
‘Sounds mighty nice. Why don’t you show me what you can do.’
I took his arm, and he led me to an open space on the floor. It was charming, in a country kind of way, especially as the anticipated whiny slow songs came on. We would take off, like a wind-up toy, as I held on to my partner’s hands, spinning and turning and growing dizzy.’
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Here is England, I own two items of 'cowboy' attire. One is a jean skirt with horses on it. When I saw it in a charity shop I just had to get it, though I’m not a compulsive shopper, and I’m not sure where I will wear it as it's NOT in fashion (and I don't think it will ever be).
My cowboy hat was something I bought before the Olympics. I think it was £2 at Tesco (a grocery store) and has ENGLAND in big, fat, honkin’ letters on the band, because they were putting 'team England' on anything they could think of during the games.
So maybe when I go back to visit the US, I might just get another pair of boots. But for now, this is about as cowgirl as I’m gonna get.
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