Nice Kicks.

Move over, women. I'm getting in this tub.

I have big feet. Size 10, baby. I don't mess around. Growing up, I was under the misconception that having big feet meant that I would be tall - lies, Mom, lies (I peaked shortly after 5'6"). But in 6th grade, I still thought my lengthy flippers would bring me to great heights, and I didn't mind showing them off. In 1996, I thought it would be best to display them in a brand new pair of sneakers - jet black, Nike Force (swoosh!), men's tennis shoes that made my feet appear about 2 sizes bigger than they actually were.

I thudded my way into Mrs. Jamison's classroom, and some of my fellows genuinely complimented my new kicks. But not Ray. Ray was mean. He made people cry. For such a short, baby-faced little rodent, he certainly knew how to wield an insult. This Napoleonic devil had it out for me that year, and, as he had already announced to the class that I had big ears, my giant feet were a new element for teasing.

We were doing worksheets in English class, and when I passed by Ray's desk to get my sheet, he did a double take. He stared at my shoes and watched them as I walked back to my desk. He turned to the tiny, loud, opinionated girl who sat next to him and whispered something in her ear. She craned her neck around to get a better look at my shoes, which were now firmly planted beneath my desk, and let out an obnoxious chuckle, one of those fake laughs that girls use when they're trying to impress guys in 6th grade.

The duo continued staring at my shoes and giggling as I tried to focus on sentence diagrams. To complete the awesome image of my ensemble, let me just say this: oversized white polo, unflattering, knee-length plaid skirt, braces, curly bangs and, the icing on the cake, huge, hulking man shoes. When I finished my worksheet, I had no choice but to walk by Ray again en route to my teacher's desk.
"Nice shoes," he said.
"Thanks," I said.
I sat back down, delighted that I'd gotten away relatively unscathed. But then, just as I took my seat, Ray leaned toward me:
"Christine," he whispered.
"Huh?" I said. He muttered something but I couldn't hear him. "What?" I said.
"Those shoes are really fuckin ugly," he said. "Your feet are huge."
I wore Sebagos for the rest of the year.