Word Up, Heels Down
When I was fifteen or sixteen, I was in a play with my best friend at the time, Missy. It was some weird, waaay off Broadway/Western/Musical/Should-Only-Take-Place-in-High-School production. I won’t rush you into an eternal coma by way of the ‘plotline’, but I will say Missy had to wear a tight sequined bustier, complimented by a very short skirt, and five-inch heels. (Wonder why teenagers now appear to be in their late twenties? My theory is that it started in the early nineties at my High School.) Yours truly was fashioned to sport a Little Louse on the Prairie flowered dress, Shirley Temple ringlets, and ye old(e) timey boots. All in all, it was not so pretty. Disturbing? Most righteously.
Around the same time period, my parents were treating Brother Gnat and I to a trip to England when school let out in June. Ironically, Mum had decided that I needed an entire wardrobe update and five-inch black sequined heels were included in this project. I don’t know how I managed to make it to fifteen or sixteen without learning to walk in a pair of heels…oh, wait, yes I do, I grew up in a farming community…but I was totally intimidated by these spiky shiny shoes.
Luckily for me, Missy hadn’t been exposed to the Art of walking in heels either, so we decided to learn together. Teach each other. Fall upon one another, literally. For those disbelievers, this really is an Art form. (Yes it is. Yes it IS! Is too!) And, like all good Arty things, a pretty pair of high-heels should be taken care of and not used for initial training when learning the proper way to walk.
Of course, our rebelliously naive natures instructed Missy & me to grab the finest pairs of heels we could find, slip them on, and walk…down her road…which was barely paved…and contained crater-like potholes which could rival those on the surface of the moon. Brilliant, I know. However, after hours of practice we did get the walk down with minimal blisters and macho egos. In addition to that, we were challenged with finding various methods to cover up the scuffmarks from said craters.
I feel as though I’ve been witness to a large number of ‘odd goings on’ during my lifetime. I’ve seen some really strange things and I’ve seen some really groovy things, but what I wouldn’t give to have seen Missy & myself dressed in our sweaty post track practice attire hobbling, twisting, and slowly lucking around her subdivision. The words ‘bobble-headed shuffling ridiculousness’=staggering understatement, literally.
Why do we do the things we do? Whelp, I know why I do most things. Because. I Am. An. Idiot. I mean that in the nicest and most humourous way plausible, as I love my life and I dig a lot of my own stories. Save the endless metaphors about walking in someone else’ footpath, journeys through life, yada, blah blah, yawn, Zzzz, and my life is mostly foolishnesses. It took me years to realize that if I couldn’t laugh about sixty-seven per cent of my life than I couldn’t really ever learn anything from my most amusing adventures.
And here’s what I’ve learned, there are a ton of useful synonyms for the word ‘ridiculous’. Being me, having lived a lot of my life with myself, and palling around with Sara, I plan to implement all of these words into every nitwitted (again, I mean that in a nice way!) episode I endure. It sure has been a wonderful life to stumble across, shuffle towards, wonder into, trip over, and Wizard of Oz skip to.