This morning I received a group email from Margaret Tedesco, sent to all the "stars" of Kevin Killian and Karla Milosevich's forthcoming play, Dance World Gym. Since many of the characters are dancers, Margaret sent links for creating costumes—how to make a leotard out of a T-shirt, how to put on ballet shoes, etc. The eHow Style site also had links to other helpful female-centric instructions, including how to walk in high heels. I watched all the high heel videos with great interest. First of all, when standing, never lock your knees. Always walk from heel to toe, placing one foot in front of the other. No wonder I have such a hard time getting around in heels. My shuffle about on your tippy-toes is all wrong. Female rituals such as heels fascinate and terrify me. I wore heels to Stephanie Young's wedding, and all the women I talked to complained about how their feet hurt, and I felt so bonded to them, like I was part of this femmy world I've always longed for, while simultaneously being repulsed by it. This evening, after yoga at the Y, I stopped in Whole Foods to buy some kale for tomorrow morning's smoothie, and since today was the Folsom Street Fair, there were a couple of women dressed head to toe in black, pale cleavage spilling out, and in ginormously steep high heels. They moved back and forth with grace, confidence, and ease past the salad bar. I zeroed in on their feet, and sure enough, both of them were walking, heel-toe, heel-toe, one foot in front of the other. It's like every woman in American knows how to do this but me. (The photo to the left are some irises I got to commemorate my Whole Foods enlightenment experience.) I can't wait to put on some heels and click-skip from one end of my apartment to the other, heel-toe, heel-toe.
The last time I wore seriously high heels was in July, at Kevin's and my 25th Anniversary party, which we held at the Purple Onion in North Beach, the club where Phyllis Diller, Lenny Bruce, Barbra Streisand, Woody Allen, Dick Gregory, etc., performed back in the day. This legacy gave the event a magical feel—surrounded by red leather and dark wood, we were a dot along this long, long timeline of the Purple Onion, we were part of the flow of San Francisco history. We invited 25 friends to celebrate with us. I wore my black and white Fluevog heels. Walking the two blocks from the car was so excruciating, I wanted to throw myself down on the sidewalk and crawl to the restaurant on hands and knees. But my feet were dazzling. I felt like Cinderella going to the ball, in my gray stretch silk sheath.