When I was about seven or eight years old, I had begun making strides in the self-improvement department. This was largely due to my friend Erin, who I thought embodied all the most ideal feminine attributes: hair past her shoulders, an impressive Sky Dancer collection, and really, really awesome sneakers. I had become sensitive to the fact that people sometimes thought I was a boy and I had already made a fervent effort in the campaign against bowl-cuts. I had accrued a significant amount of my own Sky Dancers (two), and I had even gotten a matchy-matchy pastel Osh Kosh outfit. I could just about be accepted by the girls in my Girl Scout troop despite being home-schooled and phosphorescently pale.
The only thing missing was that holy grail of '90s youth, L.A. Gear high-tops. Erin's shoes were not those loud, garish, light-up abominations of the less-refined. No, they were subtle tributes to craftsmanship, with their pastel pinks and lavenders laced with textured details. They blended effortlessly with softness of the ideal little girl. Real classics.
My shoes, on the other hand, seemed strikingly unimpressive in light of Erin's: navy Keds, a little soiled from constant mud puddle-related activities, and horrifically unisex -- as passe as they came, in my eyes. It was for these reasons that I could barely control myself when my mom scanned me on our way out the door one day, remarking, "Your shoes look worn out. I need to take you to get new ones." OHMYGOD OHMYGOD OHMYGOD. My body was vibrating with anticipation of this new lifestyle choice. This was my chance. We would go to the newly-erected mall, stroll confidently into the Dillards' kids section, and my mom would see the undeniable perfection of those pastel works of art.
When the evening rolled around -- my mom did things promptly -- a roadblock flung itself across my path. For some reason that still makes no sense to me, my dad was going to join in on my shoe-shopping escapade, despite shoe-shopping's ranking pretty low on the "family bonding" scale. Despite being temporarily befuddled, I didn't let this small change in plans interfere with my fervent excitement. We got to the mall shortly after dinner and I pretty much flew across the parking lot on a cloud of pure euphoria. My mom had to put some sort of icy death-grip on my arm to dampen my giddiness.
My parents first led me into some little shoe store with a decidedly blaise collection of children's products. I stared sullenly at the metal foot-sizer until they miraculously decided to go elsewhere. (This episode was during the unfortunate point in my childhood when I had very clearly-articulated ideas, but could not yet figure out how to put them into satisfactory words, so I was generally the hapless subject of other people's decisions.) We were now at the Dillard's end. Somehow I managed to make it clear that I really really really wanted to go in there, and my parents obliged.
The children's shoe department was everything I had hoped. There were bright lights, little Formica pillars holding shoe displays, and, my God! There they were! My shoes! They were perched up on one of the higher display pillars, and I remember having to tilt my head back a little to look at them. This display was conveniently rooted under one of the store's fluorescent spotlights, and as I stood there watching the best shoes in the world with the yellow light forming a magical little halo around them, I felt sure that I had reached some sort of Holy Grail of my childhood. My life could only get better from here. With those shoes, I would be guided down a road of popularity and, most importantly, the all-coveted normalcy. My peers would realize how incredibly normal I was and I would be rocketed into wealth and success. No one would ask my mom how old her son was again; they'd compliment her on her stunningly normal daughter. My perfect future seemed limitless.
While I heard angels' harps strike a triumphant symphony, however, my dad was hearing the loudly blaring Kidz Bop soundtrack -- and he was not a fan.
"This music is annoying," he announced. "It's too loud in here, let's go somewhere else."
Just like that, the world seemed to go dark. I was led swiftly back to that original store of devil shit and fitted with a pair of shoes that seemed oddly... familiar.
I guess you could say I got on with my life, although for the next few nights I had dreams of those L.A. Gears lying on my bedroom floor. I would wake up filled to the brim with elation and hope, only to scan my surroundings with confusion and resign myself to a life of Keds.
It was in the days or maybe weeks after that -- I had lost track of time in my disillusionment -- that the unthinkable happened. Sitting dejectedly in the circle of "fun" at the all-important Girl Scout meeting, I moved my feet out from under me on the scratchy carpet for a just a moment. Some little bitch looked at me calculatingly and said quietly, "Those are boys' shoes, aren't they?"
No. No, they were not, you bitch. They were unisex, and sometimes overcoming adversity adds character depth that your pink-and-purple-shoe-wearing ass will never understand. At least that's what I've told myself over the years.
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