farm girl

Last Saturday I crossed a line.  The psychological boundary between “A girl who lives on a farm” and “A farm girl.”  I wore my farm boots into town.  Instyle Magazine, I am sorry.

I never expected to be the type of person who needed, let alone wore, rubber boots, but here with all the mud it is a necessity.  When I first bought my boots they were cute, maybe even fashionable—pink with little yellow polka dots.  But instead of just exhibiting the boots in my shoe collection, I actually had to use them, and they are now a very faded off-white color with light brown dots.  Oh, and they are muddy.  We are just going to pretend it’s all mud, anyways.

It has rained here for the past 3 days, which means I have to walk through about 50 feet of 3 inch deep mud to get to our driveway.  I knew the market would be full of shoe-trapping mud also.  So I briefly debated between wearing sneakers which I would then have to clean or just wearing the dang boots.  I went with the boots.  I even felt sort of smug as I confidently (but not fashionably) strolled through the mud in the market, while everyone else was creeping around trying to find the driest path. 

Then I had to help my husband, brother-in-law, and farm hand push our pickup to get it roll-started after the battery died.  As I was ankle deep in mud along side three men pushing a pickup up a small incline, wearing my rubber boots, I realized that there is no denying it. I am a farm girl.