That’s what I call them: my Gone Boots.
When I put them on, I’m gone.
The boots remain.
It’s a handy trick.
I bought them from a travelling lady back home when I was in my early twenties. She refused to sell them to me unless I bought them without first trying them – I have to have belief in my soul, she said. Of course I thought I was being sold a pig in a poke. But no – they work exactly like she said they would.
Predictably, I used them for what any young man would – mostly hanging around ladies’ changing rooms (no one notices an abandoned pair of boots in the corner by the towel bin) and eavesdropping on conversations I wasn’t supposed to hear (mostly about me).
These days I try to use them only for good. Also, now I’m in my fifties and nubile bodies hold less fascination for me than they did. (And I honestly couldn’t care less what people want to say about me behind closed doors.)
The only problem is – and I know I shouldn’t complain, given this remarkable gift I’ve given – but I do have a lot of trouble walking in heels.