This week in inappropriate footwear 101: Elly wears her frat boots (froots) to class. In France.
As evidenced by the fact that they look live they’ve survived a war, these boots have become my go-to for activities featuring anything from paint to foam to champagne to questionable liquids dripping down the stairs of a frat house populated by first year girls who are “soOo drunkkk” they “could eat, like, a WHOLE Gusburger”.
Unfortunately, the only other black boots I have are either heeled or over-the-knee, and since I didn’t want to face-plant on my way to class or look like a hooker wearing thigh boots and shorts, these were what I grabbed. Somewhat shameful considering I live in France, aka the country of people who look like Anna Wintour clones and always give you the once-over in passing while simultaneously smoking a cigarette and yelling something at Jean-Claude, their equally chic French boyfriend. I should probably go buy some new boots.
At this point, the question of why I was wearing boots at all might seem pertinent.
I have strong doubts that anyone from UVA reads this blog except for some friends I bullied into reading it (hi Megan), but anyone who does go to UVA will understand the problem we face with bipolar weather. One day it could be perfect sit-outside-at-Boylan weather and the next day there would be so much snow that Dominos stopped delivering (my personal hell).
Well, UVA has nothing on France.
I thought enduring all four seasons in the span of a week was rough, but in Lyon it can literally go from December to July in a few hours. If you look up “bipolar” in the dictionary the definition will be listed as “Lyon, France”.
To combat this, I’ve taken to wearing heavier items on top and warmer shoes balanced out by shorts or a skirt. Leggings are out of the question; in France, going to get the mail merits an outfit change. This morning, seized by a hungover desire for bread to accompany the cheese I somehow ended up buying last night (go figure), I put on my running shorts (note: they have never actually been on a run) and a t-shirt to walk two minutes to the bakery behind my apartment. The dirty looks I received from the elderly would make you think that I had stolen a baby or just insulted someone’s moustache or something. Damn the French and their crusade against comfort.