To the People Who Saw Me Wearing Women's Shoes

Dear people walking by the Payless ShoeSource,

Hi there. Remember me? I'm the guy you just saw wearing a bright blue, three-inch pump. Ringin' any bells? You were walking by and happened to turn at just the right moment to bam! watch me struggle to take off a woman's high heel. Yep, that guy. Call me Ben, though. Hopefully being on a first-name basis will help us avoid any silly nicknames or derogatory terms whispered behind my back. Because if there's one thing I know about people who stroll around strip malls at 7 PM on a Tuesday it's that you guys are respectful and far above calling me a nancy-boy, cross-dresser, or maricón if you are Spanish. And you might have been Spanish, I don't know for sure. You were walking too quickly and snortling (snort+chortle = snortle) too much for me to see your face, so you could've been Spanish. See? I don't judge. Just like you shouldn't judge me for trying on women's footwear, especially since there's a perfectly reasonable explanation behind it. I'll get to it in a second. And no, they weren't my size, thanks for asking. 

Let me preface this by clearing something up: I don't usually try on women's shoes. I don't wear many shoes at all, to be honest. Barefoot is how I roll, rockin' the old-school style made so popular by Neanderthals and people who play hacky-sack in college. I find it a lot more comfortable to stroll around the world the way the Catholic Church wants people to have sex: without protection. But, also like the Church's sex-styling, it sometimes hurts. So for those times, I need to get and wear shoes, or as I like to call them, "feet-condoms." However, since I can't make shoes yet, I have to go buy them at a store. Which means shopping.

I hate shopping. I mean, I hate shopping. Emphasis on the hatred part. I don't know why, there's just something about bowing to the ever-present social guillotine called capitalism, acknowledging our eternal servitude to the fat cats who control our system, that grinds my gears. Also, I don't find shopping fun at all. There are so many other things I'd rather be doing, such as hang-gliding or being eaten alive by Gila monsters. Gila monsters are nowhere near as annoying as salesclerks, and they certainly don't try to help you find what you're looking for. Isn't that the purpose of the signs hanging up all around the store, to direct you to what you're trying to buy? If I can't find the damn Cuisinart aisle myself then maybe your signs are in need of some remodeling.

So what if I don't need a Cuisinart? I can still look, can't I?

As I was saying, I really don't like shopping. But it's a necessary evil sometimes, like when your last pair of shoes breaks and you have to go to a fancy party the next night. Then, it's evilly necessary; so, in need of new contra-toes-ception, I went to the nearest shoe store, Payless "Sure, We Don't Mind Foot Fetishes" ShoeSource.

Now, this was the first time I've been out of the house shoe shopping in a long time, for obvious reasons. So I was a little worried that since I'd last looked for a pair of shoes (see: January 7th, 2004), the store's policies had changed. What if they only carry red ballet shoes now? What if they're out of everything except one knee-high left boot? What if the store didn't even exist anymore? These questions and more haunted my mind as we drove down to the dingy strip mall that contained our local Payless, as well as a Hallmark store, a Chinese place, and a Mexican place. I hoped with all my heart that the place was still standing.
Well, it turned out I was rightly frightened, though not for any of the reasons I mentioned earlier. It seemed that in my absence, and thus in the absence of any male stepping foot in the store, the owners of the store (very likely elves of some sort, judging from the amount of times I've seen them) threw up their hands and said "Screw it, let's fill this place with girly shit." And it was, completely filled with girly shit. Excluding the single boy's The Avengers shoe on the stand in the corner (and even that seemed pretty ambivalent about its gender orientation), the entire store was filled with women's accessories. Scarves, stockings, hats, flip-flops, hair-tie thingies, purses -- you name the useless tchotchke ladies like to wear, it was on display. My testosterone levels dropped by the minute. The men's shoes had been relegated to a single shelf in the back corner, almost as an afterthought, or like it was one of those pesky children that keep coming back to the house even after you kick them out several times. By the serendipity of the gods of cobblers, a single pair of the dress shoes I needed was available. So, I picked them up and headed towards the door, and that would have been the end of it.

Except, obviously it wasn't, otherwise I wouldn't be writing you this letter, would I?
See, this little kid was hanging around the store, you know how little kids do, always begging for food or attention or love, something ridiculous. By the looks of her Miley Cyrus-themed top and bright pink sparkly jorts, she fell into the demographic referred to as "Interminably Whiny, with Parents who Buy Her Everything."

Also called " being nine years old."

For a reason that anyone who's ever interacted with a nine-year-old will quickly recognize as "because," she was staring at me. Probably had been for a while, guessing from the built-up intensity of her gaze. As I worked on figuring out what the hell she wanted, she strode towards me, leaving her post by the Disney section. It was weird, sure, but it didn't really cross the line into WTF-ness until the other six preteens appeared from between the shelves similarly dressed. They advanced as a one, in step with each other, like a hive mind obsessed with glitter and Wizards of Waverly Place. In their hands they carried various articles of women's clothing. By the time I realized their intentions it was too late; the demons were upon me.
So yeah, I got jumped by a pack of fourth-graders. But let me tell you, none of the fourth-graders I went to school with ever knew how to restrain people like they did. They held me down like they were liberals and I was withholding universal health care. Except most liberals don't try to transvestify universal health care by forcing onto its helpless body hoop earrings, black stockings, several gaudy bracelets, and a single cerulean, semi-stiletto three-inch heel. They could only fit one on, thankfully. Right as they were breaking out the lipstick, footsteps rang out. Now I realize it was you guys, but at the time I wasn't sure if it would be help for them, or for me. That's why you might have heard me scream. If you didn't hear me scream, then just kidding, I definitely didn't scream.
At the sound of my terror the prepubescent horde vanished into the shelves just as quickly as they had appeared, leaving behind only the odor of sleepovers and science-fair volcanoes. I heard voices outside, nearby. Spurred on by the worry that there might be more children incoming or that one of the passers-by would be an attractive woman (nope – you were all forty-year-old dudes!), I frantically struggled to undo the worst of their forced cross-dressing. All came off relatively easily except the pump. I tried to extricate my foot, about seven sizes too big, from the heel to no avail. You guys had already turned the corner.

And that is how you found me in a woman's high heel.

Your new friend wearing man-shoes,

Ben Hornung

My new shoes, exuding manliness.