I remember feeling uncomfortable in my shoes...

The time, late 1986. The place, a high-rise office building in Vancouver, BC.

I had acquired a job as a receptionist/secretary for a legal insurance company that was just getting off the ground. I had to dress "office" for work, which I didn't mind, but I usually managed to show some sort of individuality by wearing funky shoes with my boring secretary clothes. My favorite pair of pumps were a bright turquoise satin pair with very pointy toes, straight from the 1960's, and oh, so new wave! I bought them at a garage sale down in America for about fifty cents.

I was sitting at my desk one day when one of the lawyers that worked for us, a weasel-like short little man, wandered through the office. He stopped at my desk, looking down at my feet. Without moving his gaze, he said slowly, "Nice shoes."

I felt uncomfortable.

"Thanks," I said.

His gaze didn't lift. "No, really...I like your shoes," he almost muttered to himself.

I felt really uncomfortable. Small-town girl in the big city, I had never heard of a shoe fetish, but I found myself confronted with a man who was becoming very, VERY interested in my shoes. I felt violated, and I wasn't even sure why! I crossed my feet under my chair, as far under my chair as they would go. Sounding as bored as I could, I said, "Thanks. Don't you have some work to do?"

Finally he looked up at me, kind of chuckled sneeringly, if you can imagine what that sounds like, and wandered out. After that day, he always managed to slither through my section of the office and check out what shoes I was wearing, which, because of my love for shoes, were usually pointy or buckled or leather. In fact, I didn't own any boring shoes. I seriously considered buying some.

What a creep.

I remember watching an old man trying on boots.

It was the late 1980's, and I was making my semi-regular trip to my personal Mecca...Fluevog Shoes on Granville Street in Vancouver. I'd look at shoes and boots, dreaming about owning just one more pair. Everywhere on display were black leather pointy-toed boots with buckles and zippers, all kinds of shoes and boots, all very avant-garde and unique.

I headed past the unisex and men's shoes in the front part of the store and into the room that had women's shoes and boots to see if there were any new styles. There was a man talking to the salesman. The man was old, short of height and thick around the middle, balding head with wisps of grey hair around the edges, and wearing a grey suit. He was saying to the salesman, "I'd like to see them in a size 11, please." The young, trendy-looking salesman popped to the very back of the store, while I continued to look at shoes. (I can look at shoes for a long time...) He came back with a large pair of red leather, thigh-high boots with four-inch stiletto heels and very pointed toes. He handed the boots to the old man.

All of a sudden I wasn't quite sure where to look; I had a feeling it would be impolite to stare! I managed to maneuver myself into a place where I could watch by looking in a reflection, and saw the old man pull up his pant leg and try on the boot. He zipped it up the back and stood looking at himself in the mirror, turning this way and that to see if looked right. He walked around the shop a bit to get the feel of the boot.

I left. I didn't want to know if he actually bought the boots or not. I didn't want to imagine him wearing those boots. I kept hoping that maybe his wife happened to have very large feet just the same size as his, and he was buying her a present. I was trying so hard to not be from a small town, and I'd keep running into stuff like this, making me uncomfortable.

2002-09-05 - 6:58 a.m.

I remember my bright yellow high-top sneakers. I bought them right before I went to university, and soon everyone on campus could tell who I was even from two blocks away. People would call out, "Hey, Paula!" and wave madly, and I would have no idea who they were because they were so far away, and their shoes were ordinary.


My music professor, Mr. Janz, loved my sneakers. He was fairly young, very single, and I had quite a crush on him. He would drive around campus in his little car, listening to Beethoven as loud as most people would listen to the Ramones. He often commented on my sneakers. Maybe it was a safe way to connect, pupil to professor, just leaving it at the shoes.


I wonder if he ever got married?