On rainy kindergarten days, we slipped plastic baggies over our socks to facilitate wedging into our squeaky rain booties. It’s the last time in our lives when we should be spotted in booties, really. Leave them to the infants and hand-knits, for all our sake. But now they’re here and there and everywhere. I do not like it, not one bit, in all sincerity, they look like shit.

Not with leggings, not with tights, not here or there, or anywhere. They are not sexy, they are not hip, for those considering, get a grip. I would not, could not, in a bar. I would not, could not, for a Tsar. I do not like any ankle boots, just seeing them gives me the toots. They might be in fashion, they might be en vogue, but I will not wear them, even à la mode.

Still, I do need to get my Labor Day shop on, and aside from Neiman Markups Last Call, I’m not quite sure where to go in this town. Suggesting I wear ankle boots with a long skirt is like suggesting I not wipe. I need a salesperson who can tell it to me straight, then pull from different sections of a store, things I’d never dare to wear. A stylist really, who can create high-style outfits that look thrown together in that "I’m not even trying, but don’t I have great taste?" way. They work their magic with a belt, a bold necklace, or some such accessory that pulls it all together in a fashion knot. A salesperson who’ll be wise and honest enough to allow, “They might be trendy, but they’re hideous and will give you the gout faster than you can say ‘Better Off Dead.’” I do not care for updated 80s trends, and would only find myself wearing such soles if, and only if, due to convenience, they were paired with jeans, and no one would be the wiser, like slipping plastic baggies over your socks before plowing into your Wellies.