OP-ED: Each Time I Cross the Street, I Worry That a Car Will Hit Me and the Driver Will Get Out and Make Fun of My Shoes

Crossing the street is probably one of the most dangerous things we do, a statement I am making with no statistical evidence. I don't drive a car at Penn, I don't engage in dangerous pastimes like skydiving or ultimate frisbee, and I keep a relatively healthy diet. Crossing the street is a necessary evil, to be sure, but I fear for my safety each time I dart across a cross-walk. Not just my safety, in fact, but my dignity too.

With every step into the street, I worry that a car will strike me and, while I lay helpless and mangled on the asphalt, the driver will step from his vehicle and point at my shoes. He or she will make a rude, unnecessary comment about them. The crowd, gathering after the accident, will also laugh and point, agreeing with the driver's unprompted comment about my sneakers. And then the driver will return to his or her automobile, the crowd will disperse, and I will be left in the road, humiliated and alone. I'll also need to go to the hospital, because I will have been hit by a car.

Maybe the driver will be a short man who exits his 2009 Ford Fusion and barks, "What are those?" Maybe it will be a lawyer in a 2004 Honda Odyssey, or a 2014 Subaru Outback, who opens her door to yell, "You've got some real goofy clown feet on you, kid." It could even be a 20 year old Temple student driving his parents' 2015 Range Rover who approaches me, after accelerating through a red light and plowing into me, and whispers softly, "Damn Daniel, back at it again with the white Vans like it's still 2016."

The crowd reaction would vary. They could say "Savage!" or "Expose him!" or even "He wasn't ready." In any case, they would be agreeing with the driver. They would be roasting me for my shoes. Imagine how different Abbey Road would have been if George had been struck by a car while crossing that street, and then the driver got out and made fun of George's platforms.

I've tried everything to put this fear to bed. I've worn different shoes, even no shoes, but each time my toes touch the street I feel a pit in my stomach. My shoes aren't particularly ugly, but there is always some reason to roast them. The size of the shoe. The fact that I wore the same shoes yesterday. Maybe one shoe will be untied and a driver will scream, "Tie your shoes much?" as I am carried off into the ambulance. The possibilities are infinite. Will I live in fear forever?