Okay, I'm sorry. But I don't like to shop. Especially when it's hot. There's nothing worse than walking the crowded streets of SoHo, putting up with the heat, the panhandlers, that rancid smell of dirty water dogs from corner vendors at every turn, and snobbish store clerks. My tolerance level was completely exhausted with just trying to find a parking space. (Don't ask. I know it's crazy to have a car in New York, but it was the one luxury I afforded myself. I looked at it more like a necessity as it allowed me to escape the city every once in awhile.)

I ended up right on the corner of Spring and West Broadway. My car is too close to the corner. I know it is. At the end of the day I'll find a big scratch along the side, a parking ticket, and probably a hand written note in the road dust across the back windshield, "Nice park job. Wash me!" That always makes my day. Why is that person so mad at my parking skills but worried that my car is dirty?

Okay. We've parked. Now we have to walk. All the way back to where the cool shops are. On the way I pass an open space MUCH closer to our destination. I actually look back over my shoulder and consider running back to my car, zipping through the crowded lower Manhattan streets to get back here to this primo parking place.

That's crazy talk, I know it is. The second I dart back to Spring Street, this space would be gobbled up. I consider having my wife and her friend hold the space, but I know they'll never go for it.

A black Jag just pulled into the space. I curse under my breath. He can afford parking in a lot. That was my space.

I move on, catching up to the ladies. They never even noticed my moment of stress. But they look at me oddly wondering if I'm okay. Sure, I nod. They question why I'm sweating so much. And then my wife remembers, I don't like to shop.

Especially in the heat, I remind her.

And so the day progresses. Walking in and out of stores. From blazing heat into the cool of the air-condition world inside. And then back out into the heat.

I'm dying.

And those perky, pesky little store clerks. Why do they have to be so snobby? It's my fault, I realize, by the way I am dressed. I don't exactly look like I have money. I think they can smell that I don't have money. So I'm ignored. At least my wife and her friend are happy. Actually, they're thrilled. The new stock has arrived. Some very new, trendy, avant garde Italian "mules".

That's a shoe! Hell, I didn't know. But the girls are fascinated with them. And the very well tanned Italian store clerk reinforces the fact that these are one of a kind, made in Italy, the ultimate style, and, oh, of course, worn by Brigitte Nielson. (Is she still alive?).

I caught myself starring at the store clerks impeccable tan. She caught my eye and smiled. I felt a momentary surge of embarrassment. Maybe she's not so mean after all. Never the less, this was my opportunity to escape.

So it was time to step outside. Grab a space in the shade. A water pipe, a step, a flower basin, anything will do. Just so long as it's in the shade. The girls don't miss me for a minute. Maybe it's because I'm calling them "girls".

The heat is unbearable. New York City heat on a Saturday in August is something to be reckoned with. I spy some shade and quickly rest my weary soles.

Shopping baffles me. Especially shoe shopping. When I need shoes (about every three years) I scurry into a discount store and grab whichever shoe is on sale. Anything will do. Well, almost anything. A simple anything. White with black trim, size eight and half, please. I know-- boring!

But they fit. I pay. And I'm gone. I won't be back for three years. I don't know why I'm like that, but I am.

Now, at the risk of sounding like my Grandfather, I remember the days when you went into a shoe store and the clerks smiled, sat you down, pulled up a stool and measured your foot size. Do you remember that? I loved it! Every time I went in, I made sure they measured my foot. Like it had grown in the last month. And after the measuring, they quickly got the shoe you desired, laced it up for you (amazing!) and actually put it on your foot, tying the laces for you (even more amazing).

They watched you as you bounced around the store, up and down the aisle, bending down, looking in the mirror forty times, and then when you decided to purchase those wonderful shoes, they said "Thank you" and "Come again".

Today, they throw the box in your lap, walk away, and wonder why you're wasting their precious time. It all seems so frustrating and annoying. So why even bother? A shoe's a shoe, right?

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzz! Wrong! I discovered that sitting outside in the shade in front of that Italian Shoe Store with a name I still can't pronounce, but sounds impressive, on that hot August day in SoHo.

I began to notice the people's shoes as they passed me on the hard, crack riddled, pavement. Having never really taken the time to notice other people's choice in foot apparel, I found it a lesson in wonderment.

Suddenly, I didn't see people anymore. All I saw were legs, swiftly moving feet, and shoes. Shoes of all sizes, shapes, colors and designs. It was an eclectic smorgasbord of shoe diversity.

And that's when I became enlightened to the way of the shoe. The shoes were a signpost, an inner glimpse of the soul who wore the shoes. Each and every time it was clear. The shoes wore the character. Sort of like how people begin to look like their dogs after awhile. Well, it was the same with shoes. Kind of. The shoes were the person. They defined the person above. They define you!

So there I sat, starring down. And the shoes briskly walked by. I say the shoes and not the people because it seemed as if the shoes had taken over the stroller's souls. Sort of like, "Invasion of the Shoe Snatchers". I was surrounded. Hundreds, no thousands, passed by. I retreated further into the shade, praying I would not be seen.

Clean, white, preppy trimmed sneakers; not running shoes, or tennis shoes, with clean, white tube socks pulled up to the knees, dashed by.

Dirty, ragged and worn out running shoes, with the laces blotched by years of wear and black marks, never tied, but always dangling down and dragging over the street was next. (No socks!) Can't you just imagine the face that belonged to those shoes?

Here comes a crowd, moving across the street and dodging traffic. High tops, low tops. Colors. Flashing lights in the sole.

Brand names tell me where the person lives, or at least where they would like to live. But sometimes it gets tricky. For example: The one's wearing the Woolworth specials: blue canvas simples, are somewhat harder to pinpoint. It doesn't always mean they are broke or cheap, sometimes it means they just don't care about trivial things like the Reebok Pump or the Nike Air with the little window in the soles. (Man, we could get Freudian with that one!) If a simple canvas is worn with socks, or without, well, that tells it all doesn't it?

And then the Converse stride by. Chucks, if you've got a pair. Chucks are unusual because they are a cross between the Woolworth Special and a more stylish British Knight. Chucks are like Mood rings for the feet. They come in so many different colors and shades and patterns, that some people own up to a dozen or so. It depends on the mood as to which Chucks adorn your feet. I just can't figure out where the Zebra pattern Converse fits into that.

Suddenly the air is broken by the clip clop sound of an approaching horse. No, I'm sorry, only three inch spiked heels (on a Saturday afternoon in 90 degree weather?). Who could those sultry, black -- fill in your favorite brand name here -- spikes possibly be trying to impress? Certainly not that pair of ragged, puke green Army militia issue? But they walk together-- "Pretty woman out walking with Gorilla's down my street"-- and so I remain confused.

But the confusion quickly slips away as an onslaught of sandals approach. Brown sandals. Black sandals. Blue. White. Hooks. Laces. Straps. Thongs. Even Velcro. Birkenstocks, Kleincloppers and Saddlehoppers.

Sandals say, "Hey! To hell with style. Here's to comfort!". Little thin straps, big fat straps. And let's face it, some sandals are down right ugly. You know what they're called, don't make me say it. Changing the subject-- sandals can be worn by only a select few. Some feet were made to be covered.

Sandals span the decades. The sixty sandals, with their little plastic flowers attached delicately to the straps. The Seventy sandals, with vibrant colors and clear, plastic straps. The Eighties sandals, with protective gear, three, four, sometimes more, with the straps. Metal hooks and lashes. The Nineties sandals, a little wiser perhaps, a little more free, but not in the sense of the sixties sandals, but still "free". Pretty mat colors, shiny silver and gold to reflect the prosperous times. Designer names and expensive taste. And finally the sandals of today-- the next Generation. Futuristic and down right all over the map. Jetson wear.

You rarely see a sandal walking with a high heel. But if you do, the sandal is usually a few steps ahead. The heels lag behind, stopping the purple Chucks in their track with their tongue drooping out.

Army boots, work boots, and rubber flaps stick together. Occasionally a worn out sneaker sneaks in with the troop, brandishing a hand drawn swastika on the side. The kind with the clockwise arms, not the counter-clockwise ones used by the Native American Indians. Big difference.

In such a confined area as New York City you get a better chance to see such a wide variety of shoes. The Army boots are always in the Village. The East Village, that is. Travel to the Upper West Side and one sees an abundant amount of Docksiders. Travel across the park and one sees a higher class, more expensive loafer.

It's really in the location.

And somewhere in the midst of all this, Cowboy boots fit in. Plain style, Texas style, New England style (New England Cowboys?), and Western. I don't really know the difference, but those who wear them swear they do. And so sturdy black cowboy boots pass quickly by, the rattle of spurs echoing out for blocks. Yes, spurs in the Village. Christopher Street is only a few blocks away.

Some Cowboy boots have heels. Some are very flat. A pair of snake skin boots with gilded gold tips just passed. The character just oozes fourth from the snake. A crucifix dangles over the top of the boot, draped down over the side ever so slightly. That's sending a mixed message. Or a very clear one. It all depends on your perspective. As the saying goes, "If the shoe fits--"

Then there were the one's in their own category. Like the cellophane pair (I swear), the monkey skin pair (I asked) and the red and black Bowling shoes. I actually liked those.

It was then that I realized the importance of shoes. So as I looked down at my own foot coverings and I began to ask, "Is this the image I want to convey to the world?" Is this the message? I mean, if I was so quick to judge others, wouldn't others be quick to judge me?

It was hot. Suddenly very hot. But I left the cool side of the shaded building and entered "Chez Shooz". The girls were surprised to see me at first, and then assumed that I was bored and was here to beg them to go home, get something to eat, anything! They were even more surprised when I somehow managed to mumble out that I needed shoes.

The world stopped spinning. The laws of gravity were defied. A miracle had just happened and a chorus of three hundred angles began to sing Gregorian chants. A bright light poured down around me and everyone in the store stopped and stared.

Too late. The words were out and I was cornered. A shoe virgin has entered the building. And so I faced rack after rack of shoes. Who knew there were so many?

The clerk brought over some loafers to start. It would be a nice new look she said. The first loafer was brown. Nothing wrong with brown. It was the two little tong like dangling things on the tip that I had a problem with. Not me. Sorry.

Next pair. No definitely not. Chartreuse has never been my color. Next!

Boots? Okay, I'll give it a try. I don't really see myself as a Cowboy, but what they hey! I am looking for a new image right?

From the very first pair, I knew I was in trouble. Lizard skin? Do you really think so? The store clerk said something in Italian. I understood the word "cappuccino". I guess I made her thirsty. Unless she wasn't really Italian and that was Greek for something a shoe steps in!

So the boot look wasn't me. Although I did find one pair that came close. A soft, brown suede boot with a low heel. I don't know, maybe I'm reading into this too much, but what does that mean?

I passed right over the shoes with the huge soles. (Again, I'm reading into this) They just weren't me. Large, jagged edged treads, with shiny silicone and black laces.

Next please.

Sandals.

Next!

Dress shoes. Patent leather. A few caught my eye. But not my wallet. I sort of fancied the black with white wing tipped pair. My wife frowned. She said something about Al Capone. I got the message. The next pair was okay, but really, those kind of shoes go with Argyle's and dress slacks. How often am I dressed like that? It's just not my... well, character.

The clerk then showed me a pair of wicker sloop deck poop shoes. That's what they were called. For yachting, she declared. Fine. I guess I can pass on those. My yacht is with my Porsche in my mansion on the French Riviera. Don't know when I'll get there next. Damn! Oh well, they weren?' my color anyway. Why do all the nice one's come in chartreuse?

Not much was left. I tried on all the pull-ons, slip-ons, tie-ons, black one's, white one's, cheap one's, expensive one's. The only things remaining were the sporting wear. I didn't like loafers, even though I loaf a lot. I didn't feel comfortable in the Cowboy boots. I didn't like the sandals because I feel funny without socks. (I know, I need help!), and I didn't like the dress shoes because I rarely dress up. So the sporting wear was all that was left. And for those that know me, they know I'm not into sports. I'm screwed! I mean, really, what is the difference between a running shoe, a tennis shoe, and a sneaker? Is it really in the "shoe, shoe, shoe" as the commercial once said. Why can't I "Just do it!". Just buy something!

So I tried on all the wonderful athletic wear. So many to choose from. I pondered over the rack wearily. The clerk now knew for sure, I was passé. I mean, I wouldn?'even look at the Dutch Clogs.

But at long last I came to a decision. It was hard, but it was right. I felt the entire store sigh a sigh of relief. The clerk woke up. Yes, I was ready. My choice--

--My old shoes! I don't know why. They fit. They were snug. They were already worked into my feet. I knew them. They knew me. They knew how to move. I don't care if somebody judges me on my shoe wear. I'm happy with my worn out old sneaks. I mean, who else but me would be deranged enough to actually spend so much time analyzing someone by the shoes they wear?

It's all so absurd. All I know is I'm happy when I'm comfortable. When I'm not comfortable, I'll buy a new pair. I'll change. When I'm comfortable from head to toe, I'm confident. If the shoe makes the man, then let me pick my own shoe.

Life's hard enough to be judged by something as fleeting as a shoe. Wear what you will, as long as it doesn't hurt someone else or impose your beliefs on another foot. There might be a day when I'll even wear sandals. Stranger things have happened.

Life's longer than a foot. And we have to do what we have to do to survive. I guess you could say it's all a matter of putting your best foot forward first.

Just so long as it's in a shoe, of course!