As soon as I watched the video of the bachelorette party, I realized I was going to need some cowboy boots to wear at my nephew’s wedding. He and his adorable fiancée were planning a big fat Texas wedding and every single woman in the video wore cowboy boots, often with manicures to match. I might be a 70-year-old quasi-retired Boston cancer doctor, but I wanted to fit in at the celebration.

Since I figured cowboy boots would be a one-time thing and I’m a staunch recycler, I decided I’d try to borrow some instead of buying them. Unfortunately, my immediate friends and I all wear solid, stolid New England boots. Our closets are full of snow boots and hiking boots: Tread and warmth are the priority, not rhinestones and decorative stitching.

So I posted a query on a couple of tried-and-true Facebook groups composed of people in my neighborhood and women doctors I work with. I had a pretty specific request: “I’m looking to borrow size 9 women’s cowboy boots for a Texas wedding in May. Extra points for bright colors, sparkles, low heels, not too pointy.” I figured it was a long shot.

But I was wrong.  It turns out many seemingly staid professional Boston women — physicians, social workers, molecular biologists and attorneys — own a pair of over-the-top cowboy boots. All told, about a dozen women with rhinestone cowboy boots hidden in the back of their closets reached out to let me know they were willing to share.

It also turned out every pair had a story. For most of these women, some kind of drama — complete with Texas-sized emotions — had led them to purchase the boots.

The author in her borrowed cowboy boots. (Courtesy Robin Schoenthaler)

The first woman — a physician named Rachel — got her gorgeous boots way back in high school. “My school never held academic achievement ceremonies. Only sports award assemblies — which, as a nerd, I found annoying,” she explained. On the day of the varsity awards, Rachel grumbled to her mom about the unfairness of it all during breakfast. “Halfway through the school day, my mom showed up in her Chevy Caprice station wagon, saying I was right. ‘Let’s go blow off the sports awards,’ she told me. Then she took me out and bought me these cowboy boots. It was our way of celebrating both  summer vacation and my nerdiness.”

Liz, a quiet, serious attorney, offered me her wildly colorful embroidered cowboy boots. “One of my dearest friends — my high school prom date, the funniest man I ever met, a man who was a back-up dancer all over the world — died in Clayton, Georgia,” she told me as I tried on her boots. “After his funeral I overindulged at the hotel bar and found myself window shopping on Main Street. One little store had these boots in the window. They spoke to me, and now  every time I wear them, I celebrate him.”

The winning pair came from Julia, another unglittery Bostonian. Ten years ago, months into grieving the sudden, unexpected death of her partner, her closest friends convinced her to join them on a weekend getaway. The same friends also convinced her to buy a set of completely out-of-character, gorgeous knee-high Old Gringo Boots. (In case you’re not familiar, these are expensive, handmade, rockstar boots). She wears them on special, out-of-the-ordinary occasions (posing for a calendar! entering a dance contest!), each one a reminder of love and loss and living life again.

I met her in her private office with the door closed, the boots stuffed in a Stop & Shop bag. We both held our breath, anxious to see if they fit, but we needn’t have worried: In a moment straight out of Cinderella, those boots slid on like I was born to dance in them, which I did.

The wedding and reception were great, the bride and groom dreamy with young love and hope. My dress was fabulous — flowy and flippy — but it wasn’t until I pulled on the boots that I felt the rise of my inner rhinestone cowgirl. I knew I’d nailed it when an 81-year-old Texan named Antonio came across the hall to tell me he loved my boots.

Antonio and I did a flashy rumba. My kids and I joined the bride’s family in the traditional Grand Family March, and we finished off the night stomping our hearts out to a rollicking Texas two-step.

I danced like I always do at weddings — to honor the new love story blossoming before me. But this time I also danced to honor the women back in Boston and all the complicated love stories behind the boots we have hidden in the back of our closets.