They're like vultures! Fashionable vultures.

It's sometimes dramatic when a woman likes your shoes.

Sometimes it's a casual pause in the hallway, you watch her eyes move to your feet, and she sort of nods with approval. An understanding.

Other times she just offers you the phrase: hey, I like your shoes! And sometimes you give back an enthusiastic thanks! other times you give back a little more: Thanks, I got them at Macy's! Or even more yet: Thanks, I got them at Macy's. On clearance!

Other times it's half-praise half-disgust half-jealousy. It's 150% shoe interest. This is when you get the Oh my GOD, how can you WALK in those?! And there's nothing you can give back to that comment. Just an offering of a small response: just practice, I guess. Or it hurts, but it's worth it! Or: it's really not that bad. And then she says: I could never walk in those. But you wonder if she's really tried. You almost want to give her a little pep talk. Oh, I bet you could. You just have to get used to it.

Today I'm wearing fake snakeskin heels. Shannon used her Macy's discount to help my buy them, over spring break. They're a sassy, sassy shoe. Pointed toe, three-inch heeled Anne Kleins.

I went downstairs to get lunch from the lunchroom. A little downtime. I was the only one in line. I got my pasta and the lady in charge of the frozen peaches in a fruit cup spotted me. She was a whole breed of shoe lovers. The kind that stops you in your tracks to start a discussion about your shoes, the one who gasps at the sight the them, the one who hollers out quickly as though there's a stray baseball coming at your head fresh off a bat and you better duck fast: Oh my God! I loooooooooooove your shoes! She holds out the "o" as though the length of the vowel represents the exact amount of love for the shoes.

I like women like this. Women like this make me feel good about myself. I mean. I wear cute shoes because I like to look good. And I wear them because I like when women comment on how cute my taste is. C'mon. That's why we all wear cute stuff. And they're good for my calves. Bad for my feet, but good for the calves.

So, the excited lunch lady stops me while I'm holding my plate of rigatoni and broccoli and steps out from behind the lunch lady line to get a closer view of the shoes. I offered her the longest phrase: Thanks, got them at Macy's, they were on clearance. She commented I never can find shoes like that! What size are you? And I told her 9 1/2. She was an 8 1/2, she said. That's why she couldn't find them. Nobody had them in her size; it was more common. (I neglected to tell her that 9 1/2 is actually the most common size for all women. No use angering the woman who praises your shoes.)

Eventually, she started calling other lunch ladies over to come see these shoes! And before I knew it I was sort of encircled by a bunch of women in white aprons who'd started a shoe conversation with me in the center. 8 1/2 said that she could totally walk in those! They weren't that high! And the frumpy, permed-hair lunch lady, the one who obviously used humor to cover up her frumpiness, commented that she couldn't walk in those--couldn't even walk in flats! And the lady running the register just kind of smiled at me because she obviously didn't really care for them, and another lady stopped her business to come out an peek at my lower half around the corner. I offered up the heel by bending my leg back--the same way a woman does when she's into a really passionate kiss.

How flattering, anyway. I click-clicked away with my plate of food, praying to the shoe gods I wouldn't trip over myself. And then I thought of the excited lunch lady going home and had a chuckle at what might happen at her house, 6:00, over dinner, while instead of plopping mashed potatoes on trays she's serving her husband grilled chicken and vegetables. He's had a long day, and like the students just expects this food every night. She says, Jack, you should've SEEN this woman's shoes at school today! They were just amazing! They were snakeskin and high heels and I'd love shoes like that! And she goes on and on, all excited, while Jack shovels food in his mouth and just thinks: who the fuck cares. Who fucking cares about shoes.