Don’t look. I have baby feet.

I’m only 5′ 4″ and a half. But even for that diminutive height, my feet are too small. I wear Size 8 (U.S.) shoes/boots, but that’s a bit of fudging. My real size is smaller, but those sizes just plain look too small. I look like a Chinese girl whose feet were bound.

No less an authority on men than famous heterosexual Queen Latifah recently called me a “grown-ass man” (she was upbraiding me for trying to push some young girls out of the way so I could be in a picture with her, and she added, “Now chill out!”), but there is something she didn’t know about. Something underneath...

My wee 10 toes have no visible “knuckles,” and they form this perfectly tapered line at the top, instead of the wacky jutting toestyle of others that I see on the summer streets. Take an average 1-year-old’s feet, increase the size by a factor of 5, but keep the shape: That’s my feet. I’m not exaggerating.

Not only are they small, they are flat. Which is a shame, because I really, really, wanted to join the Army and now I can’t, just because I have flat baby feet.

My baby feet keep my from dating, because if you date someone, eventually they will see your feet, and as soon as someone does, it’s Game Over. “See ya later, baby-footed freak!” they always say.

I only wear pants in the summer, because what footwear could I do with shorts? Everything I would wear would require socks, and shorts and socks is a fashion no-no. So I just wear jeans and boots all year round.

The only time anyone sees my bare baby feet anymore is on the rare, brief occasions when I go to the sauna at the gym. I sit in there looking at everyone else’s feet and feeling bad. Comparing their normal feet to my munchkin cloppers. Then I go cry in the shower for an hour, cursing my dumb little pink-and-yellow flip-flops that I bought in the children’s section at DSW.

“What’s wrong with looking like a baby?” you may ask. True enough: Babies are cool and chill, but I’m almost 40. I bumped into a childhood friend at the grocery store a few years back, I hadn’t seen him since high school. Within seconds he produced a picture of his newborn from his wallet. I said, “Oh, she’s cute! Here’s mine.” And I pulled a baby picture out of my wallet and showed him. “Why… who… this is dated 1972…” he stammered. “Yeah, that’s me!” I said, beaming with pride.

I’ve tried to put a positive spin on my baby feet. 1) I’ve never had a problem with foot odor, just like other real babies don’t. 2) I can borrow my girl friends’ shoes when I need them for a witch costume. 3) I try to tell myself maybe small feet mean I’m more evolved somehow?

It’s either that or they are a symptom, a reminder, that I am less developed. Less of a man, for sure, but also less of a human being. Not a real adult.

I feel bad about my feet.

But it wouldn’t be like me to just keep the heartbreak of baby feet inside. I have to externalize it. I openly campaign against flip-flops, sandals, and the people who wear them. IF I CAN’T WEAR THEM, NO ONE CAN. I turn to molten lava inside when I see all the doods showing off their big, normally developed feet just because they can.

Bitter, unstable adult baby that I am, sometimes I do lash out. I do. I’m only human. Just last night I went up to this gnarly old asshole who lives in my building — he has two small children that he’s always showing off — and he had his Tevas on and his gross fingery toes were hanging out and I got in his face and snarled, “Why don’t you go put some real shoes on, faggot?” He pretended not to hear me so I grabbed him by the nape of the neck and repeated myself, but louder this time. His one kid started laughing.

Then I stomped on his Tevas. But he didn’t notice, because… well, because baby feet.