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Running (in heels) to catch up
I got all sorts of email today, good and bad, about the last few entries. Interesting thing is that some mail agreed with me and others disagreed with me, but never in the same ways. It was all quite provocative and very useful - thank you all for taking the time to write someone who probably didn't deserve your brain cells on this matter.
I'd like to quote some of those emails here, so I can preserve them for posterity, but I said I wasn't going to write about this anymore, and I meant it. I'm feeling better now, I've made my peace with all but one of the people I pissed off, and I've got some ideas on how better to walk the tighrope between deception and meanness in the future. So it's past time to stop.
Instead, I'll catch up on why my weekend was so hellishly frantic and yet a lot of fun.
I've forgotten a lot of it already, which is why I should write these things down in a timely manner. For example, I'm willing to swear I did something moderately interesting on Friday night, but I'm damned if I can remember what it was.
So let's cut to Saturday.
This is a satin high-heeled pump. It is a ladies' size sixteen.
 I can wear smaller women's shoes - as low as a twelve - but not with heels this high. The heels are about four inches. Here's another picture with my coffee cup, for scale:
 For men who don't know - and maybe even women who don't know - when a shoe has heels like this, it acts as a wedge, trying to squeeze all your toes, using the weight of your entire body, into the point at the front of the shoe. The higher the heel, the greater the force.
I add "women" to that crowd, because when I got to my ultimate destination on Saturday night, I realized there are quite a few college-age females who have never worn heels like this. Remarkably sane of them, I think. I myself cannot wear these shoes for more than a half-hour at a time without taking them off and letting my feet decompress. And I'm pretty good. I can go up and down stairs in them without bobbling, walk on ice in them, even drive in them. It's not a question of ability. It's a question of blood circulation.
The toes on my right foot were numb until Monday.
I have a theory. You can tell me if it's poppycock. I think that some women don't walk in heels well for reasons that have nothing to do with practice. I believe some women don't walk in heels well because they don't want their ass to sway.
No, really. Especially in an urban area, where a wiggle in the walk might be taken as an invitation by the wrong maniac, I think some women have basically trained themselves to keep their hips still. And of course I never did move my hips that way when walking, being put together a little differently.
But you can't walk in heels right without shaking your ass. Sorry to be so blunt. If the counterweight doesn't move, you're just setting yourself up for problems. I walk in heels as if, were I walking in snow, my footprints would be in a single line. One foot directly in front of the other. This generally produces the sway I need. It makes walking much easier.
Of course, the sensible thing is to not walk in heels at all. I bought these shoes some years ago and have worn them a handful of times since then. They are definitely Advanced Heels and since I have no taste for self-torture, I tend to only drag them out when absolutely required. On Saturday, they were required, because they were the only shoes which went with the outfit.
I had on a satin skirt with a stiff underlayer, cut-away - that is, it was about knee-length in front, but nearly touched the ground in the back. On a shorter person, it would have had a train. Beautiful skirt. Bought it a while back and it's waited for an opportunity ever since.
The other parts of the outfit - a black velvet shirt cut with extra material at the neck so it falls in pleated ripples, and a sheer black shirt to wear over that and conceal my shoulders - we bought that afternoon. At a department store. It was our second attempt to find something for me to wear above the waist (Nonelvis dressed relatively butch, of course, in black slacks, a gray tank-top/sweater, and a black cardigan over that, so her outfit was easier to assemble).
First we drove out to Judy's (Nonelvis' sister's) in Jamaica Plain to see if one of her evening gowns would fit. (Sometimes they do, but the odds aren't good.) Then to the mall. All of this in the midst of what has to have been the worst, stupidest traffic I have ever seen. The morons were out in force. It took us over an hour to drive someplace we should have been in a half hour. The clock was ticking, we had an evening deadline plus the hour and a half it takes me to get ready en femme, and we were increasingly cranky.
Fortunately everything worked out and we were only a few minutes late when we reached our first stop - our friends' house, where they were giving a small party for various obscure reasons. We warned them that, due to the next stop on our itinerary, I was wearing a skirt ... but they're cool people and so they didn't care. The other guests may have been a bit freaked, but we didn't know any of them and spent most of the time catching up with our hosts anyway. Actually, that's not true - one woman admired my skirt. Well, she came in wearing a full-length coat that caused me to nearly salivate, so the admiration was mutual.
Then it was off to the Institvte, to meet some friends for the Millennium Ball!
Okay, now, get this straight: I am not a "ball" person. For one thing, I do not dance. I have no rhythm and barely enough grace not to lumber. But how could I resist an opportunity to play dress-up? So I expressed interest (surprising Nonelvis, I think).
As it turns out, everyone was startled. Even the sponsors had only been expecting 1000-1200 people. They got two thousand. The student center had been commandeered and completely redecorated for the event. Various areas were dance floors in the style of different time periods - a Fifties room, a Seventies room, and so forth. Students were actually dancing! Hell, students were actually socializing!
And I was pleased to see that "evening dress" is not dead. Although the rules said only "Dress festively," and of course there were a number of oddball interpretations of that (you could count me in that number, so don't think I'm criticizing), in general most people had chosen evening gowns, tuxedoes, dark suits ... things I didn't think anyone under the age of thirty would ever wear voluntarily.
So I learned something: I learned that everyone hungers for a good party, and that I'm not the only person who likes playing dress-up and strutting my stuff in public. I feel a little stupid now, but I can at least say that everyone else was surprised by the attendance as well.
And for the record (not that it was in much doubt), I got no serious weird looks or repercussions whatsoever (and a number of compliments). I did catch a co-worker off guard, but he recovered gracefully. In fact, I think it was the longest conversation I've ever had with him.
On Sunday, I limped over to Graham's for the second photo session. These were going to be more casual and more natural - no big lights, no backdrops - just me sitting around using daylight as the main light source. I interpreted that to mean no fancy outfits as well, but I brought along the outfit from the previous night because I wanted to get one picture of it, if possible, for posterity.
Well, I ended up wearing that outfit for the whole forty-eight pictures. Graham liked it, I guess. He had me lying or sitting on the floor in various positions so the skirt could fan out around my legs. These proofs should be interesting to see!
With the ball and the party and the photo shoot, plus the time to get myself dressed and ready on both days, plus other errands like groceries and such, this weekend was an utter frenzy. I didn't stand still and Nonelvis didn't much either. And the next few days were spent with me getting sick and not sleeping well and having long discussions about my rudeness level with my friends and playing catch-up with other parts of my life.
Which is why I'm finally writing about my weekend now, three days later.
© Columbine
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