From: "Shelly Roberts" Date: Tue, 12 Nov 1996 12:50:05 +0000 Subject: otp1-ROBERTS' RULES: FOOT 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.