March 22, 2010
Once I see them on his feet, I am unable to sustain eye contact. I shield my eyes from the horror. I hold back tears. But, he's totally oblivious to my discomfort. In fact, he thinks these shoes are cool and tap dances around as if he's Gregory Hines or some shit.
It is an assault on both my vision AND my hearing; not only do I get to see his square-toed, shiny black shoes, but I get to hear them click-clacking towards me, like a show pony or a bitchy librarian. Oh god, those little heels! It's horrific. I get PTSD just from being within a twenty foot radius of them. I'm rocking back and forth in the corner mumbling like Rainman.
The worst is when we go out dancing and he's slip sliding around the dance floor like Prince--that is if Prince had sizable student loan debt and an affinity for cheap beer. He's shaking those shoes around like they're the bees knees and I'm excusing myself to go order another High Life at the bar and flirt with the cute guy in the Vans.