You know when you try so hard to be the person everyone expects you to be in a town where your grandfather probably sold their grandfather a tractor, and you feel like you’re just a character in a play you didn't even audition for? It’s that constant, low-level hum of performance. And sometimes you do everything right—you wear the ironed shirt, you remember to ask about their daughter’s college applications, you drive forty minutes to the only decent florist—and then life just decides to kick you in the teeth for no reason other than it can. It’s enough to make you want to drive your car into the creek, honestly, just to see if anyone would stop talking about the weather for five seconds. I had this dinner at the Millers' house last night—and if you live around here, you know the Millers, they’re basically local royalty because they own the mill and half the acreage in the valley, go figure—and I’d been on my feet since five in the morning. My car broke down near the old ridge road, which is just classic, right? Total cliché. So I ended up walking four miles in these heavy leather work boots because there’s no cell service out there and I was already behind on my reports for the firm. I’m a junior associate, which sounds fancy until you realize I’m mostly just a glorified errand boy for guys who haven't updated their filing systems since the Reagan administration. By the time I got back and changed into my suit, I didn't even think about my feet. I was just focused on not being late because if you’re late to a Miller dinner, you might as well just pack your bags and move to the next county over. So you get there, and the house is beautiful in that way that feels like a museum where you’re not allowed to touch anything or breathe too loud, and then you see it. The pile of shoes by the door. Mrs. Miller has this thing about her rugs—these hand-woven things she got in some place I can't even pronounce—and you realize the shoes HAVE to come off. And suddenly, you feel this heat crawl up your neck because you can already feel the dampness. You know that sensation? When you realize your socks are basically biohazards because you spent six hours sweating through wool? It’s a specific kind of panic that makes your stomach drop through the floor and you just want to vanish. I stood there for a second, just frozen, and I was so ANGRY. I was angry at my car, and I was angry at the boots, but mostly I was just angry at this stupid, arbitrary rule. Why do we have to do this? It’s a dinner party, not a holy shrine. But everyone is watching, the partners from the firm are there, and Sarah is there—Sarah who I’ve been trying to impress for three months—and you just have to do it. You peel off those boots and the smell hits you like a physical wall. It wasn't just "active," it was rancid. It smelled like something died and then got fermented in a locker room. I could see the literal steam coming off my heels, I swear to God, it was like a cartoon. And the worst part is the silence. You know that silence? Where people are too "polite" to say anything so they just pretend they don’t smell the rotting garbage attached to your ankles? I walked into the dining room and I could see Mr. Miller’s nose crinkle, just for a split second, before he went back to talking about grain subsidies or whatever. I sat down and I tried to tuck my feet as far under the chair as possible, but every time I moved, a fresh wave of it would drift up. It felt like I was wearing two dead fish as slippers. I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell them that I’d walked four miles because I’m a hard worker, because I’m trying to make something of myself in this miserable town, but instead I just sat there eating poached salmon and feeling like a sub-human. It just makes you realize how fragile your "professional" identity really is. You spend four years in university, you read all the right books, you learn how to talk about wine and local politics, and then one humid day and a pair of damp socks turns you back into a peasant. That’s what it felt like. A peasant. I looked at Sarah and she was smiling, but she was leaning AWAY from me, and I knew right then that it was over before it even started. All that effort, the flowers, the careful texts... all ruined because of biology. Because of a stupid rug. I’m just so TIRED of everything being so high-stakes in a place where nothing actually happens. You ever get so mad at yourself that you start hating everyone else for being witnesses? That’s where I’m at. I didn't even stay for dessert. I made some pathetic excuse about a headache—which wasn't a lie, because the stress was making my brain throb—and I practically ran to the door. Putting those boots back on was the most disgusting thing I’ve ever done, sliding my feet back into that cold, wet leather. I drove home with all the windows down, even though it was freezing, just screaming at the top of my lungs. My neighbors probably heard me, but who cares? They already think I’m the weird kid who moved back from the city just to fail at being a lawyer. And tonight I’m just sitting here, 2am, staring at those socks in the trash can because I couldn't even bring myself to wash them. I just threw them away. I’m thinking about the look on Mr. Miller’s face and how that story is going to go around the office on Monday. It’s going to be "the incident." People in this town don't forget stuff like that. They’ll be talking about my feet at the Fourth of July parade three years from now. You try so hard to build a life and it just takes one tiny, smelly thing to remind you that you don't belong here, and you probably don't belong anywhere else either. It’s just pathetic. Everything is just so incredibly pathetic.