Subject: otp1-ROBERTS' RULES: FOOT
From: "Shelly Roberts" <[email-masked]>
Date: Tue, 12 Nov 1996 12:50:05 +0000

ROBERTS' RULES
by Shelly Roberts

BEST FOOT FORWARD.

 Ooh. Ow. Sorry. `Wait up. I'm walking slower than usual.

We were a group out to dinner, then to a show trucked down to South
Florida on a flatbed truck for all the transplanted New Yorkers who
wouldn't be caught dead at The Bellasco theater in NYC paying a
gazillion dollars to catch a musical. 

A half a dozen in our go-to-town silks, cottons and linens, walking
back to the car. 

"How come you're limping?" Someone asked on our way to back to
Wallet Parking. "I can't help it," I replied. "I'm wearing girl
shoes."

I was. Alligatored patent pumps adding inches short of needing to
carry portable oxygen to my stature. Shiny. Pointy. High. Can't run in
them. Built for dancing backwards. The kind of shoes some
self-respecting dykes (like me) still occasionally wear on occasions.
This night, I heard the-mama-in-my-head saying. "You aren't going to
wear those out in public, are you?" as I longingly surveyed my comfy
line-up of tennies.

So I dragged out my girl shoes, and dressed myself right up.
Tailored wool pants. Cable knit white tennis sweater with pink and
teal cables and cleavage down to there. Linen jacket in case of
emergency air conditioning. Good jewelry. Even a hat. And, of course,
my girl shoes 

Funny thing, though. My mama was nowhere in sight. Not an aunt, or a
grand aunt, or an uncle. Not my high school ethics teacher. Not an ex-
or future employer. Not even a school principal. We did have a school
vice principal, retired. But she was with us. One of us. And she
wasn't wearing girl shoes, either. Well, not exactly. She had on sort
of dyke-modified girl shoes. Very low heels. Nothing you'd have to
amputate a toe for. 

"Should 've worn your dyke shoes. Like us." one of our group
responded. And as the muscle in my right thigh clenched, I agreed.
"Yup, 'should 've." 

They all had worn theirs. 

One pair of black boots. Modified heels. Shined. Dyke shoes.

One pair of low cut suede black boots. Low heels. Dyke shoes. 

One pair of brown leather lace-ups. Low heels. Dyke shoes. 

One pair of white slip-on Keds. New. Still white. Dyke shoes. 

Etc. Etc. Dyke shoes.

None of them were wearing Timberland steel toes. None of that "yer
mother wears hiking boots" foot fashion in sight. Nonetheless, the
lesbian fashion police would not have found grounds for a Politically
Incorrect arrest for anyone. Except, of course, me. And I was the only
one limping.

It made me wonder why I'm still playing mama tapes over as silly a
thing as shoes.

Then I remembered. It wasn't mother.It was Whatzername! 

My third lover. Or fourth. Of course! Whatzername! A big lady. Not
qualifying for the Guinness Book of World Lesbians or anything, but
seriously substantial. And rather than hiding herself in vertically
striped awnings, this lady learned how to dress. She could pass muster
at diplomatic receptions. Security guards never gave her a second
glance. 

She taught me about natural fibers, designer pleated pants and
blazers. Silk. Gold button earrings. Pearls. Chic. Together. Cool.

"Dress tailored." she said. "But always wear little femmy shoes. It
confuses them." 

Well, say no more. I knew which "them's" she was talking about, and at
that point in my life I certainly didn't mind keeping them guessing. 

So she wore her little femmy, girl shoes with Jones of New York and
Anne Klein pleats. And I watched her. Kate Hepburn al Grande in
sling-backs. It even confused me. I never did figure out which of us
was butch and which was fem in that relationship. Which also may tell
you why I can't recall whether she was number five or number eleven.

But what surprises me now is that I'm still doing it. Wearing little
femmy "girl" shoes. When I don't have to. I didn't know any of those
people seeing the performance. I did know, and like, all those people
I was with. None of whom would have judged me on my footwear, or
needed to be confused by the fact that I was holding hands with the
woman I was seated next to in the theater. 

I don't spend time hiding my real life any more. Or worrying much
about confusing "them" or keeping "them" guessing. I don't want them
to guess. I want them to know. Except, apparently, for this one little
ankle bending, thigh flexing exception. This footwear fetish I still
seem to be tottering on top of.

Well, that's an easy fix. Just as soon as my calfs stop spasming, I'm
going into the closet to dust off my comfy, politically correct Bass
Weegens. And Nikes. 

I wonder if the Lesbian Herstory Archives takes Joan and Davids?

Phew! What a relief. Look, Ma. Comfortable shoes!

I'm a lesbian clich=E9.
 ________________________

 (C) 1996. Shelly Roberts. All rights reserved. May be reprinted only
 in its entirety
with written permission.

Shelly Roberts is a nationally syndicated columnist, speaker, and
author of Roberts' Rules of Lesbian Living. Spinsters Ink.