It's All In The Shoes

Last night I ventured out into the world for shoes. My old pair of sneakers was covered in paint and tile cement, coming apart at the heel, and in serious need of replacement. It was time. It was past time.

Venturing out for shoes means going to The Mall. I'm not really a big fan of The Mall, either from one too many viewings of Dawn of the Dead or simply because it makes me interact with people - people with whom I have very little in common. I enjoy people-watching at The Mall, but lately it hasn't helped my view of humanity, between the "my-parents-are-funding-my-teenage-rebellion" boys to the Ana girls to the homey-wannabes in overpriced gangsta clothes.

So I pass by all the overpriced shoe stores they clone in every American mall and locate a skating store. Skating shoes are, in my humble opinion, the best sneakers money can buy. They are fairly inexpensive as shoes go - none of this AirWalk Michael Jordan (or whoever the hell it is these days) $200 shoes that kids get wasted over in schoolyards - and they are built to last. They're built specifically for people whose feet are constantly abused on a skateboard. This means they not only allow for an incredible range of movement, but they're damned comfortable and could be shot by a missle and come out OK.

Of course, the skate store doesn't have the first five styles I like in my size, but I finally locate one that is in my size that is passable. The two girls working at the store are kind of good looking in that bleach-blonde-and-tanned sort of way, and the one who is doing most of the helping has on a pair of those lowrise pants that are so popular these days, so I get a couple of nice images of her back-40 as she's bending over to help me.

Liz comes in near the end to assist, and we walk out. Since we're at the mall, we might as well go look at other things we need (I scored a bunch of great shirts on the cheap, but that's not relevant to this tale). On the way home, we're discussing women's fashions when the topic of lowrise jeans comes up.

I mention that I prefer women whose hiphuggers, well, hug their hips - as oppose to squeeze them like an overripe grapefruit, redistributing their hip padding upwards to they get the spare-tire-like bulge hanging down over their jeans.

Liz: You mean like the girl at the shoe store?

Me: Which one?

Liz: The girl who checked you out.

Me: SHE WAS CHECKING ME OUT?

Me (internal dialogue): Alright, all those lunchtimes at the gym are finally paying off! Women are looking at me again! I'm one hot and sexy fucker, that's right! It's time to strut!

Liz: Yeah, she rang you up at the register. You know, checked you out.

Me: D'oh.

And you all know what's coming next:

Me: Sigh.