Dee and I had seen some super-cute shoes on a table in front of a bodega that is located next to Savers (a second hand store). This area of town has been acquiring a Latin flavor for many years, and its pretty common to find shops that have more Spanish than English spoken by both employees and customers.
This particular one has Sinaloan Vaquero duds on one side, (hats, boots, mariachi lace-up shirts, western shirts with arrows on the pockets) and short skirts, sexy tops and cute shoes with at least 4" heels on the other side.
Dee had gotten some black and white polka-dot peep-toe sling-backs and a pair of espadrilles. Barbara was being good and demurely refused to buy either the red sequined pumps or the brown and white polka-dot peep-toe sling-backs wedges. (Incidentally, I didn't even know the term sling back 2 months ago, and I own 4 pairs of just that variety of heels now.)
I went back today, confidant from my experience with my personal lingerie shopper at target, that girls the world over live in peace and harmony with each other and live to help other girls regardless of genetic gender to look pretty. A little Polly-Anna, but it was a sunshine and f-ing daffodils kinda day for me.
The grab-a-shoe table was gone, as were the prettiest ones that were piled in the window, and all on sale at the time 1/2 of of the usually ridiculously low price of $9.99, were apparently back up to $9.99. $10 seemed when I'd just spent $50 on underwear that doesn't actually do a very good job of either covering and or supporting my given genitalia, and brassieres that seem a little unnecessary, given the level of mammalian protuberance that my genetic gender produces.
Still, it couldn't hurt to look, could it? I inquired about the shoes that used to be in the window, and was made to understand (wrongly) in broken English, that the shoes I sought were in the back in the main shoe section. I hungrily cruised the aisles like a teenager (or a 41 year-old with a midlife crisis) who just discovered his first engine swap article in a tuner magazine.
I enjoyed that for a bit, then was more or less heading out the door when I found a pair of Black with tan polka-dot sling-back heels that I decided must be the ones I remembered, just wrongly. I was careful not to offend the machismo (or catch the eye of) any of the bright amarillo boots and puffy shirt wearing crowd. Stepping out of my male tasseled loafers, I revealed a hint of racer red polish through the sheer sandal toe. I slipped on a size nine and found that it fit pretty well. I was hastilly putting it back in all of its complicated packaging when a young Latina with the best English (such as it was) in the place offered her help. I was getting ready to leave, but thought what the heck. I explained that my wife and I were in the other day and I described a pair of shoes I had seen at the time. She registered recognition and motioned me with her back to the back again. In high speed fluent Spanish, she called out to 'Selena' who apparently has no English, but a great handle on inventory. She described my shoes and Selena produced them. Voila! (didn't catch the Spanish equivalent). They looked at me expectantly, and finally asked what size do I need? I knew it was either 9 or 10. I asked for the 9, took a deep breath and slipped off a loafer and wriggled my red toes into the womans shoe. It fit. They were puzzled, but apparently not firmly assuming that I intended to wear them, because when I explained to my translator that I wanted to build an outfit from the shoes up as opposed to the other way around, the light visibly dawned as I explained that I was new to dressing in womens clothes and could use some help coordinating pieces.
Once they got it, they were off to help. They saw no reason not to involve other sales-girls in the confab if it helped settle a point such as sizing conversions and fashion debate. By the end of the trip, I had a chocolate brown tube top, (wait, its just an under layer!!!!) and a silk sheer taupe top with nice detail work if not the best fabric. At the register, the awareness that this man with the smooth bald head, was apparently going to wear these clothes, and they were not at all taken aback despite cultural taboos about alternative lifestyles. I suspect, they just figured, those crazy Norte Americano's are as likely as not to do any strange thing you can think up.
When,(continuing a tread of conversation with girl one about having been here previously and gotten shoes with and for my wife) I mentioned in passing that my wife probably goes along with my dressing because it means I don't mind the shopping, and in fact encourage it.. The clerk smiled along with the rest, and then suddenly stopped, and said "Wait, did you say your wife??!"
She had no problem seeing a world where a dude might wear heels. It flabbergasted her that a dude with a wife would. I explained a little about CD and orientation without at all getting into gender versus orientation. I left her with the little knowledge I had gained about CD'ing and myself. That CD in and of itself isnt gay, maybe a little wierd, but not gay, and that I'm ok with the weird feeling it gives me.
This particular one has Sinaloan Vaquero duds on one side, (hats, boots, mariachi lace-up shirts, western shirts with arrows on the pockets) and short skirts, sexy tops and cute shoes with at least 4" heels on the other side.
Dee had gotten some black and white polka-dot peep-toe sling-backs and a pair of espadrilles. Barbara was being good and demurely refused to buy either the red sequined pumps or the brown and white polka-dot peep-toe sling-backs wedges. (Incidentally, I didn't even know the term sling back 2 months ago, and I own 4 pairs of just that variety of heels now.)
I went back today, confidant from my experience with my personal lingerie shopper at target, that girls the world over live in peace and harmony with each other and live to help other girls regardless of genetic gender to look pretty. A little Polly-Anna, but it was a sunshine and f-ing daffodils kinda day for me.
The grab-a-shoe table was gone, as were the prettiest ones that were piled in the window, and all on sale at the time 1/2 of of the usually ridiculously low price of $9.99, were apparently back up to $9.99. $10 seemed when I'd just spent $50 on underwear that doesn't actually do a very good job of either covering and or supporting my given genitalia, and brassieres that seem a little unnecessary, given the level of mammalian protuberance that my genetic gender produces.
Still, it couldn't hurt to look, could it? I inquired about the shoes that used to be in the window, and was made to understand (wrongly) in broken English, that the shoes I sought were in the back in the main shoe section. I hungrily cruised the aisles like a teenager (or a 41 year-old with a midlife crisis) who just discovered his first engine swap article in a tuner magazine.
I enjoyed that for a bit, then was more or less heading out the door when I found a pair of Black with tan polka-dot sling-back heels that I decided must be the ones I remembered, just wrongly. I was careful not to offend the machismo (or catch the eye of) any of the bright amarillo boots and puffy shirt wearing crowd. Stepping out of my male tasseled loafers, I revealed a hint of racer red polish through the sheer sandal toe. I slipped on a size nine and found that it fit pretty well. I was hastilly putting it back in all of its complicated packaging when a young Latina with the best English (such as it was) in the place offered her help. I was getting ready to leave, but thought what the heck. I explained that my wife and I were in the other day and I described a pair of shoes I had seen at the time. She registered recognition and motioned me with her back to the back again. In high speed fluent Spanish, she called out to 'Selena' who apparently has no English, but a great handle on inventory. She described my shoes and Selena produced them. Voila! (didn't catch the Spanish equivalent). They looked at me expectantly, and finally asked what size do I need? I knew it was either 9 or 10. I asked for the 9, took a deep breath and slipped off a loafer and wriggled my red toes into the womans shoe. It fit. They were puzzled, but apparently not firmly assuming that I intended to wear them, because when I explained to my translator that I wanted to build an outfit from the shoes up as opposed to the other way around, the light visibly dawned as I explained that I was new to dressing in womens clothes and could use some help coordinating pieces.
Once they got it, they were off to help. They saw no reason not to involve other sales-girls in the confab if it helped settle a point such as sizing conversions and fashion debate. By the end of the trip, I had a chocolate brown tube top, (wait, its just an under layer!!!!) and a silk sheer taupe top with nice detail work if not the best fabric. At the register, the awareness that this man with the smooth bald head, was apparently going to wear these clothes, and they were not at all taken aback despite cultural taboos about alternative lifestyles. I suspect, they just figured, those crazy Norte Americano's are as likely as not to do any strange thing you can think up.
When,(continuing a tread of conversation with girl one about having been here previously and gotten shoes with and for my wife) I mentioned in passing that my wife probably goes along with my dressing because it means I don't mind the shopping, and in fact encourage it.. The clerk smiled along with the rest, and then suddenly stopped, and said "Wait, did you say your wife??!"
She had no problem seeing a world where a dude might wear heels. It flabbergasted her that a dude with a wife would. I explained a little about CD and orientation without at all getting into gender versus orientation. I left her with the little knowledge I had gained about CD'ing and myself. That CD in and of itself isnt gay, maybe a little wierd, but not gay, and that I'm ok with the weird feeling it gives me.
1 comment:
though I haven't shopped in years, I still recall my several visits to department stores and shoe shops.
My fave place for buying stockings--real stockings, not pantihose--was the main Macy's store in NYC. You had to deal with a salesgirl to get them and, surprisingly, I never had one of them express anything other than excellent customer service in helping me pick out the color, size and style I wanted.
For shoes, in addition to Payless and Fayva, I loved to stop into the bargain basement at the now-defunct Alexander's...where you could always find great deals on sexy shoes in large sizes.
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