Thinking about my days towering atop a pair of Italian army boots (they were cheap and the surplus store had zillions of them, brand new and not just surrendered war surplus) that I actually had two pair. One were the beat up gnarly ones I’d stomp around on daily, at work, in the clubs, at gigs, like that. But I had one pair always freshly polished and perfect that were for weddings and funerals and job interviews and nice places. They were my formal combat boots. I had class. I’d still smack my head going through doorways, but they were much nicer doors. It’s the little things. Or the big giant clodhopping things.