There are two requirements for being a woman in Italy:
1. Legal documents
2. Sexy boots
(Not necessarily in order of importance)

I’ve been learning that a lot of my American fashion prejudices don’t apply in Europe. For instance, that nice lady at church who I thought might be a hooker… isn’t. (Note to self: Woman standing on street corner at night wearing boots and half a napkin = hooker. Woman praying at church wearing boots plus clothing = not a hooker.) I can’t help it; in my American experience, most gals coordinating their designer heels with their designer eye shadow were trying to be either Hilary Clinton or Jessica Simpson. ::Shudder x2:: Here, however, women dress up simply because they want to look nice. And they all wear sexy boots.

You know the boots–the ones that say “My calves are so sexy I have to wrap them in black leather, and my heels are so sexy they need their own four-inch pedestals, and my toes are so sexy that they are the exact shape of a pie-server, no really.” My shoe wardrobe does not say such things. My shoes say “Yo, I can skate,” even though I can’t. But here I find myself, a woman. In Italy. And there are requirements…

So I now have my own pair of authentically sexy boots (as authenticated by my husband and my own personal feelings of oo-la-la), and there are some things you should know. First, remember that song, “These boots were made for walking”? It refers to combat boots or rain boots or any kind other than sexy boots, which are specially designed for tripping. However, all pain, inability to walk, potential crippling, etc. are entirely irrelevant in the face of such podiatric cuteness. (Just like Barbie doll feet! Except so much cuter because they’re mine!) Finally, sexy boots necessitate sexy eyebrows. But that’s a different story for a different day…

Though people who met me as a college freshman might disagree, I am generally shy. I’m that girl you see melting into her soup rather than speaking up at dinner parties and crying when someone at the beach has the audacity to glimpse her in her swimsuit. I’m also a boobyphobe, which happens to be the topic at hand.

Flashback to the unspeakable horrors of puberty. On second thought, let me just repress all that for you. We’ll start instead with the slightly-more-speakable horrors of my first Super Ultra Mega Top Secret Boyfriend (Now with plausible deniability! Warranty not included!). We were sitting in his truck exploring the enticing gray area beyond homeschool courtship standards, and he asked me in a voice like fornication itself what I was wearing under my tank top. Now the dilemma. I could not possibly utter the word “bra” (this scandalous term was replaced by “shoelaces” in my house, no kidding), but the alternative was saying–and thus implying–nothing. Obviously, the only dignified solution was to let him find out for himself.

Flashforward to now. Though I have had many years to get comfortable with my own bosom, I would still rather people think I cruelly starve my infant than know that I breastfeed her. But did I mention that I now live in a land of topless beaches, billboards, and book covers? A land where TV hostesses only wear strategic bits of fringe? A land where crowds of women fight to try on bras in the outdoor market? So I should not have been surprised when the following conversation happened amongst a group of ladies at church last week:

Lady #1, pointing to the innocent, unbreastly bottle I’m using to feed Sophie: “You don’t breastfeed your baby?”
Me, wishing I could be untruthful in church without crashing through a trapdoor to hell: “Um, this is my milk.”
Lady #1: “It’s your milk?”
Me: “Yes.”
Lady #1 to Ladies #2, 3, 4, 5, & 6: “It’s her milk.”
Lady #2 to Ladies #3, 4, 5, & 6: “It’s her milk.”
Lady #3: “It’s your milk?”
Lady #2: “Of course it’s her milk! Look at her!”
Lady #4: “With those breasts, how could she not have milk?”
Lady #5, incredulously, as though I have sporting goods stuck up my shirt: “You have very large breasts.”
Lady #6, gesturing with both hands: “Very large breasts.”
Lady #4: “See, how could she not have milk?”
Lady #1, showing bottle to uninvolved passerby: “That’s her milk. From her very large breasts.”

You may be asking yourself if there is a universal lesson to be learned from this story, and lucky you, there is: Don’t teach your children that bras are called shoelaces, or they will end up standing buxomly in an Italian church debating whether to just die right there or wait till they get home.