No shoes for you.

When you have thighs that end three feet below in toes as I do, boots are a problem. I see other girls running around with their skinny little calves, and their skinny little jeans zippered into their skinny little fashion boots and I stare them down with envy.

Those skinny little girls have no idea how some of us suffer, particularly those who make do with what can be most optimistically described as "sporty" calves.

I come from a long line of people voted least likely to ever blow over in a windstorm. Legs should be sturdy, but mine border more on resolute with prejudice. This condition makes finding boots that can zip up over my calves to be nearly impossible.

And yet I keep trying. I've long ago given up trying to be a better person, but I'll be damned if I give up on my quest for boots that will zip up around my calves. It's important to have priorities.

My latest expedition took place in Vancouver, where I spent a week submitting to allergy testing.

(For more than a year I've suffered from allergies so severe, it wasn't nearly enough to say I had allergies. The term "Muppetism" was coined to better describe what happens to my face and feet for no discernible rhyme or reason. This is how I ended up spending a week with 138 chemicals swabbed onto plastic trays, and the 138 little plastic trays taped to my back with three inches of medical tape. )

(It was good time, and I'm happy to report I know what I'm allergic to! I'm unhappy to report the chemical that affects me so severely appears to be in approximately 87% of products sold on planet earth, including all waxes for hair removal. I'm happy to report my sex life is pathetic enough that I was spared discovering this little factoid following a Brazilian because...well...damn.)

I couldn't exercise all week, I couldn't shower and I couldn't stop myself from rubbing my back up against various walls and sharp corners in an attempt to provide relief from the blisters and the itch while appearing nonchalant. Really, the only practical thing left for me to do was to shop.

Trying on clothes was largely out of the picture, because it's hard to wiggle in and out of a sweater without disturbing the large area of my back appearing to have grown an electrical panel. Really, I had no choice but to shop for shoes.

My sister had pointed out a store downtown carrying nothing but shoes, boots and purses - and nothing over $19.99. If there were a Make a Wish Foundation for Grown-ups with Muppetism, this store would feature prominently.

I was the only customer in the store in the middle of the day in the middle of the week. The owner of the store was a very well-dressed Iranian man, who glancing down at my feet assured me that most of the shoes in the store came in large sizes. Fantastic.

What I wanted to try was a pair of black over the knee boots with silver buckles and heels that sashayed the very fine line between sexy and slutty, and could easily make the leap to trashy whore with little effort. They were perfect.

When I went to zipper the perfect boots closed, they were also about 12 inches too small to do so. The owner gave a slight eye roll which said he wasn't the least surprised, and perhaps now I would be willing to look at the more clog oriented section of the store.

I wasn't ready for the clogs. Instead, I meandered around the store in hopes I would find the impossible - sexy high boots to fit my peasant calves. If such boots ever existed, the patent was last seen stuffed into Jimmy Hoffa's pocket, but I had nothing better to do at the time.

Spotting a wider looking pair of riding boots, I reached my hand towards them. From the back of the store, the owner yelled out.

"Those are not for you!"

Alright...perhaps they weren't as wide as I may have thought. I turned and picked up some boots in a rich brown suede, that would look really cute with my pink...

"Not those!"

Fine. The brown suede may be a little too narrow after all, so I picked up a very dressy black pair with what appeared to be a generous amount of elastic at the very top.

"Those not for you either!"

I really, really wanted sexy boots for $19.99 so I argued that the top of the boots were stretchy.

"Not enough."

Now I understood why real truth in advertising can't be allowed to happen. My mission failed, but I still left with a pair of leopard print high heels, purchased largely out of self defense, and my head held high.

I had no choice but to hold my head high really - slouching could have loosened all the medical tape.