Witches Don’t Wear Snow Boots

When I was little I was obsessed with being a witch for Halloween. I didn’t like the Wizard of Oz, I was infatuated with it. My tendency to purchase anything remotely red or glittery I believe to be overcompensation for the fact I never had ruby slippers, no matter how many times I wished upon a star and worked it into my nighttime prayers.
You think I’m joking.
My nightly conversations with God often ended, “…Guide me through the night and wake me with the morning light, and ruby slippers. Amen.”
They never did divinely appear on my feet when my brown eyes opened in the morning. If the psychology of a 4-year-old went beyond thinking shoes could complete a life, it could be concluded that was the singular reason I portrayed the Wicked Witch. Solidarity.
In 1991, I was 6, and in my third year as a necromancer. My cackle was killer. However, that year Mother Nature, also, donned her black hat, long nails and green makeup, misinterpreted treat for trick, and unleashed a gigantic blizzard on the greater Midwest the night of Halloween. Minnesota winters have always been the bane of my existence.  (Yet, somehow, here I still am.)
It didn’t matter. I was determined. There would be no room left in my Scruff McGruff reflective candy bag. I was on a mission to eat so much sugar in one sitting that my dentist’s tears would weep tears of weeping tears. This was happening.
I was in the middle of shoving on my black nails when my mother informed me that I had to wear my snowsuit underneath everything if I wanted to go trick-or-treating.
No way.
Being the smaller, yet, still very detail-particular version of myself, I explained to my mom that I was not wearing my snowsuit. It would be uncomfortable, and it would make my costume look funny. An indirect way of saying that it was not true to my character.
I did not win that debate.
I came out of my room a puffier, less mobile version of the Wicked Witch, but none-the-less black from the top of my satin hat to the tip of my patent leather maryjanes.
I would give anything to go back and see my face when I was informed that I wasn’t wearing those shoes, and got handed my snow boots.
Equivalents:
– dousing me with a bucket of water.
– dropping a house on me.
I hated my snow boots. Snow boots went with no outfit. Ever. People were going to SEE the boots. Most of all, how could I say, “I’ll get you my pretty! And your little dog, too!” and be taken seriously in something that an astronaut wouldn’t even wear?
I was positive a small piece of my wicked cred died that night in footprints shaped like Pamida Special snow boots, but I did survive (even if it was only by the tips of the 3 black nails left on my fingers). I vowed that I would never make myself wear those nylon, stinky things when I was old and no one was the boss of me.
Every time someone opened their door holding a bucket of candy, I was sure I felt them thinking the same thing I hissed to myself with every stupid trudge…”Witches DON’T wear snow boots.”

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