These Boots Weren’t Made for Walkin’

Of Arias and Underwear

I knew I was in trouble when I realized I was more aware of my underwear than the orchestra.

Andrea Bocelli was singing in Italian at his Romanza Concert at Bridgestone Arena—the same place the Nashville Predators body-check one another into plexiglass—and all I could think about, after the drive to Nashville and dinner already spent regretting my wardrobe decisions, was how my boots had apparently shrunk in the years since I last wore them. And why, in a moment of questionable optimism, I had chosen “pretty” over “practical” in the undergarment department.

Romanza Concert, indeed.

Bridgestone Arena, conspicuously chandelier-free, turned into a sociological study in formalwear interpretation. There was the plump gentleman in a shiny bow tie and a thin white dress shirt so inexpensive it nearly achieved transparency. His wife wore what may have been her daughter’s retired prom dress—or perhaps her own, bravely resurrected for one more evening of glory.

A woman in a magnificent, brightly colored traditional African dress moved through the crowd like royalty, a sculpted headdress completing the look. Her companion’s shirt was made from the same bold fabric. Together they looked intentional, radiant, and entirely confident.

There were ratty jeans. There were polished ensembles. There was every interpretation of “romance” in between.

And then there was the man on the stairs.

Halfway down two flights of open arena steps, calmly interrupting the natural flow of foot traffic, sat an older gentleman reading a book. Just sitting there. On the steps. Reading. He wore a red beret and a red sweater vest over a white shirt with sleeves slightly puffed and pleated at the shoulders—enough to evoke the Seinfeld pirate shirt episode. And yet, there was something almost serene about him. While thousands of us milled about waiting for romance to begin, he appeared perfectly content in his own small square of stillness.

We passed him several times, partly to confirm he was real. We may have giggled. We may have taken discreet photos. Strictly anthropological, or course.

The music itself had moments of real beauty. The West Side Story medley was glorious, complete with dancers whose movement filled the arena with an energy even the Italian arias did not. And a young woman—young by my standards, though clearly a grown adult with astonishing lungs—sang “All By Myself” with such power and range that the entire arena seemed to inhale at once. For a few minutes, even my feet were forgotten.

But somewhere between the untranslated Italian and my increasingly cramped toes, a quieter thought surfaced.

When did I become the kind of person who longs for her comfy chicken-tending clothing in the middle of the Romanza Concert?

When did organic cotton hipsters and roomy boots become non-negotiable? When did comfort begin to outrank aesthetic ambition—when did I start choosing comfort over appearance?

The walk back to the hotel clarified things.

It was cold. Brutally cold. My feet hurt. I hadn’t layered properly—no sensible farm coat in sight. I made a determined beeline for the hotel bed, silently thanking God we weren’t facing a ninety-minute drive home on top of it all.

And yet.

I loved watching my husband’s joy as he softly sang along in Italian, possibly trying to impress me. I loved that he was completely at home in the music. I loved that he knew the words to songs I barely recognized.

Perhaps romance, at this stage of life, looks less like chandeliers and high notes and more like walking back through the cold together, laughing about the man on the stairs, grateful for central heating and a nearby bed.

Next time, though, I’m wearing the cotton.